


We Are The Lucky Ones

by blithelybonny



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Drift Compatibility, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Memories, Omega Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Undercover as a Couple, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, double winter soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6759358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Soldiers will be drift compatible -- of that, there is no question. They were bred for perfect synchronicity; two halves of one whole, one mind in two perfect bodies.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But they cannot be allowed to remember. The drift may be catastrophic.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are The Lucky Ones

**Author's Note:**

> Well, holy shit. So for my first real Captain America fic, instead of writing something simple or normal, I decided to write Pacific Rim fusion, double Winter Soldier with alpha/beta/omega dynamics. Because of course. 
> 
> With literally a million and one thanks to [eidheann](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann) who first sparked the idea with me and then hounded me until I finally finished. She also helped with beta-ing and generally making sure I didn't go totally off the rails. Or encouraged me TO do that, possibly. It's all a blur.
> 
> Anyway, with one day left until I get to go see Civil War (OMG NO SPOILERSa;lkdfj;slkdfj), please enjoy this small Winter Soldier-based offering. All the love in the world, and hope you enjoy! <3
> 
> Also, obviously, Marvel owns it, not me, and the title of the fic comes from Bif Naked's Lucky.

The Soldiers will be drift compatible -- of that, there is no question. They were bred for perfect synchronicity; two halves of one whole, one mind in two perfect bodies.

Alexander Pierce isn't afraid of them; he could never be afraid of them because though they were HYDRA's greatest assets, they were his to control. They bent to his will and surrendered to his command.

He has concerns, though, about this venture with SHIELD proper. The Kaiju threat may be too large for HYDRA to ignore, and it may jeopardize HYDRA's own goals, necessitating action alongside SHIELD, but the threat of compromising the Soldiers seems more pressing to him.

The Soldiers cannot be allowed to remember. The drift may be catastrophic.

They stand side-by-side at attention, hyper-aware and silent. Pierce surveys them as impassively as he can, but a hint of his pride in them and their many accomplishments appears in the smile he cannot fully contain. “How long have they been out?” Pierce turns and asks the nearest technician.

“Fifteen minutes, sir,” she replies. She flicks a glance at them, and Pierce can smell her fear. It only grows his smile. “No signs of behavioral instability.”

Pierce smirks. “No, there wouldn't be, would there?”

She lowers her head, immediately contrite. “No, sir, of course not.”

No one is supposed to discuss the Soldiers’ behavioral lapses openly, but he supposes he can allow this girl her mistake. She’ll pay for her insubordination later, when there are more witnesses and the lesson will be more effective. Besides, his concerns about this mission are more important right now.

He dismisses the technician with a sharp nod, then strides across the room to where they stand. “My boys,” he greets.

The First Winter Soldier acknowledges the greeting with nothing more than a raising of his eyes to meet Pierce’s. The Second nods and quietly says, “Sir.”

“We’ve a mission for you both. One of the utmost importance. I trust you are eager to do your good work again?” Pierce asks. It isn’t actually a question, and he expects no response. The Soldiers exchange blank looks with each other, and Pierce reaches out to place a hand on the Second’s shoulder. “There’s my good boys.”

“Sir,” says the STRIKE team leader, Rumlow, “Dr. Klein is ready for the debriefing.”

“Go on. Make me proud,” Pierce says. He watches them leave, escorted by a pair of technicians, through to the small debriefing room in the next bay. Then he turns back to Rumlow, curious. “Tell me, what do you think of all this?”

Rumlow manages to keep his obvious surprise at being asked for an opinion mostly underneath a veneer of detached professionalism. “The mission, sir?”

Pierce nods.

“Well,” he begins and sounds so uncertain that Pierce nods again, offering a smile of encouragement, “with the increase of Kaiju, it makes sense that we use every weapon in our arsenal.”

“That is the generally-accepted wisdom,” Pierce replies evenly. He thinks of the sickly-green face of Zola’s consciousness screeching its opinion about the Soldiers’ effectiveness in the field and frowns.

“Yes, sir.” Rumlow looks off towards the room where the Soldiers are being debriefed. “With regular maintenance, there shouldn’t be any problem.”

“Yes, regular maintenance,” Pierce echoes.

When Rumlow turns his head back, he looks briefly nervous that he’s spoken out of turn, but Pierce did ask him sincerely. “They’ll do great work, sir,” he adds, with confidence.

“They always do.” Pierce smiles. “You’ll take good care of my boys, won’t you, son?” he then asks.

“Yes, sir!” Rumlow replies immediately.

“They are our greatest assets. I’m trusting you to safeguard them.”

Rumlow’s gaze turns steely, certain. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

Pierce raises a hand and claps it on Rumlow’s shoulder. “Of course you won’t. You are a credit to this organization, Rumlow.”

Pride swells in Rumlow’s eyes. “Thank you, sir,” he says.

“Do not let them remember,” Pierce then says sharply. “Do not let them realize what they are.”

It takes a moment, but Rumlow solemnly answers, “You have my word.”

“Good. Dismissed, Rumlow.” Pierce watches Rumlow walk over and let himself into the debriefing bay before he goes to stand at the observation window himself. The Soldiers are seated at the small table, folders with their cover information laid out before them, and their rapt attention is on Dr. Klein as she explains the threat and their role in neutralizing it.

Pierce’s concerns remain, but Zola had insisted. Pierce will just have to trust that their control over the assets is enough to withstand the potential for error. And if there is one thing Pierce has absolute faith in, it’s HYDRA’s ability to control.

\-- -- --

With the memory of their field handler’s last warning fresh in his mind, the Second takes one more moment of preparation. He glances to his left at the First, practices a smile-- an affectionate smile, a loving smile because they are meant to be lovers. The Second knows that he has never loved before, has never needed to love to complete a mission before, but the debriefing had been thorough enough that he is confident in his ability to demonstrate what love looks like.

He takes a moment to really look at the First. They have worked in tandem on missions for decades -- sometimes side by side, sometimes alone -- but the Second has never had to consider the First as a man. He has never had to consider the First as anything other than a mission-assist.

The Second knows objectively that the First is considered handsome. The Second has observed the way that others have looked at the First when they were in the field together. There is always fear, first, but beneath the fear, the Second has observed the interest, the arousal exhibited by members of their STRIKE team or technicians. The First is well-built, with a strong upper-body, a trim waist and thick thigh muscles. He has dark brown hair that comes just past his chin and pale grey eyes that steal other colors from the light. The First carries himself with a certain swagger that the Second has never been able to imitate.

Objectively, yes, the First is handsome. Objectively, the First is a man that creates arousal in others.

“What are you looking at?” the First asks. He sits on the edge of the bed they are expected to share while they are on site at the SHIELD facility where they will learn to drift and operate a Jaeger.

The Second doesn’t know arousal -- but he does know that now, being forced to look at the First in a way that will simulate arousal, will simulate love, he must accept that the First is handsome. He must accept it objectively and demonstrate it convincingly. He takes a breath, exhales in a shallow way, and keeps his eyes fixed on the First. “You,” he says.

The First cocks his head, but then seems to understand what the Second is trying to do. “Do you like what you see?” the First asks. 

“I do,” the Second replies. His voice pitches lower than is normal for him. It briefly gives him pause.

The First blinks at him, then stands up. He extends his flesh hand to the Second, and the Second takes it easily. It fits well in his own hand, slightly smaller than his, but not so much as to dwarf. “Do you think they will believe?” the First asks quietly.

“I do.” The Second raises their joined hands to his mouth and presses his lips to the First’s knuckles. Lovers share moments like this, Dr. Klein had said. Brief moments of intimacy. Casual touches that can become heated. The Second hopes what he is doing is correct.

The First untangles their hands, but then drags his thumb across the Second’s bottom lip. “Of course they will,” he says. “Because we are extraordinary.”

“We’ve shaped the century,” the Second continues. He knows this story by rote. They both do.

“We are the fists of HYDRA.” The First lowers his hand to his side. “We can do anything.”

The Second curves his lips into a smile. “Come on. Let’s go, Lev,” he says, using the First’s cover-name. “We’ve got some Kaiju ass to kick!”

The First’s eyes crinkle with his amusement. “You are such a dork, Erik,” he replies.

“You love me,” the Second replies easily. Because that is their cover: Erik Moeller and Lev Petrovic are a pair of United States Army veterans who met and fell in love upon returning from Afghanistan. They met and they fell in love, and now they want to help their country again by joining SHIELD and taking down the Kaiju that keep coming through the breach.

The First hesitates, and the Second wonders again if he is doing this wrong. But they have to be convincing, don’t they? Otherwise SHIELD will not believe that they are who they say they are. But then the First nods and echoes, “I love you.”

A knock at their door interrupts them, and the Second turns with practiced ease. They know better than to display any signs of surprise. He opens the door, and their field handler stands on the other side.

“Are you ready?” asks Rumlow, in a tone that suggests the Soldiers would have to leave even if they were not ready.

The Second nods, and the First comes to stand at his side. The Second can feel the heat of the First against the exposed skin of his forearm. It is an odd sensation, to be so very aware of another person, to be so raw in another person’s presence. The Second almost misses his tactical gear. He wonders if the First feels the same-- if it feels as odd to be so exposed.

“Then let’s go,” Rumlow says gruffly and turns on his heels to lead the Soldiers down the hall and away from the dormitory section of the facility. They arrive back at the training gymnasium where they first checked in, and Rumlow nudges them towards the mats where they are to practice sparring until the time comes for their drift compatibility test.

It had all been explained to them upon emergence from cryostasis, and the Second is more than confident that they will be all right. They will do what is necessary to eliminate the target -- just as they always do.

“First to the count of three?” the First says, glancing sideways at the Second.

The Second lets himself smile. “You’re going down, Petrovic,” he asserts, before he drops and easily takes the First’s legs out from under him with a sweeping kick.

They grapple easily, but instead of turning fierce and feral, as they are normally required to in the field or while training new HYDRA recruits, they are playful. The Second finds himself laughing, and it’s a strange sensation. His stomach swoops, and his chest feels light, as he rolls out from under the First’s metal arm. It takes several long minutes of this, being trapped and escaping, before the Second finally pins the First beneath him. He traps the First’s hands above his own head, clamped together in the grip of the Second’s right hand. 

The First could easily escape again, the Second knows. The First’s metal arm is a powerful weapon -- far more powerful than the Second’s flesh arms -- but instead of using his strength, the First just lays back against the mat. His face is flushed with exertion, and several strands of his hair have come loose from the tail he wore and have fallen about his face. He pants. He’s putting on a show.

“One, two…” the Second counts as he slaps his free hand against the mat. He holds off on three for much longer than is necessary, and the First wriggles in his grip, but otherwise doesn’t move to break the hold. The Second laughs and continues, “Three.”

“Cheater,” the First says and thrusts his hips against the Second’s in an effort to unseat him.

The Second falls back with another laugh. “I am no such thing,” he replies.

“Are too,” the First tosses back, as he pushes himself to his knees. “You cheated somehow because you’ve--” He cuts off, and his gaze is drawn down the Second’s body.

The Second looks down at himself and realizes what the First is staring at. His body has done this before, and he suspects that First’s body has also. It’s a reflex, according to one of the doctors. It can happen due to all manner of stimuli, and while it has mostly been trained out of them, it can occasionally still occur. The Second suspects it may be a reaction to the cover -- his body understands what his mind is not necessarily familiar with, arousal and attraction to the First.

He closes his eyes and breathes carefully. It will go away. It always does. A moment later, he opens his eyes again and smiles up at the First. “What you do to me,” he murmurs.

The First doesn’t respond except to extend his hand to the Second. The Second takes it and levers himself up with a soft frown. Perhaps he’s doing this wrong. It concerns him. He refuses to be the reason this mission may fail. He can do better. He will be better.

A woman with bright red hair catches his eye from across the gymnasium, and the Second straightens his back. The First comes to his side. They look at one another for a moment, understanding easily, as she starts over to them.

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova alias Natasha Romanoff. Defector. SHIELD agent since 2010. Alpha. Biggest threat to potential exposure. Bonded to omega Clint Barton, SHIELD agent since 2011. Unrivaled skill with bow and arrow. Hearing-impaired. Medium exposure threat. Tread lightly._

She stops directly in front of them, arms folded across her chest. With a flick of her eyes up to the man perched in the rafters above and watching them, she says, by way of greeting, “How long have you been out?”

The Second smiles genially and extends a hand for her to shake. “Six months. Is it the haircut or something?”

She smirks, amusement in her face, if not her eyes. “The posture,” she replies.

“Very good, Miss…?”

“Natasha, not Miss. You're Erik Moeller.” She turns an imperious eye on the First. _“And you are Lev Petrovic.”_

The First replies with feigned surprise, accent soft and convincing. _“Pleasure to meet you, Natasha.”_

 _“Likewise I'm sure,”_ she replies. _“Impressive hardware.”_

The First lifts his metal arm, but ducks his head slightly with false modesty. The Second takes a step closer to him and slips a hand onto the First's lower back. He feels the First tighten almost imperceptibly. He should let go. He should let go because while lovers would be comfortable with a casual touch like this, the First is clearly not comfortable because they are not real lovers. The First is uncomfortable with the Second because the Second may have already made a mistake. 

But then. 

But then the First tilts his head just so, just enough to catch the Second’s eye, and he relaxes against the Second’s hand. _“It helps to have friends in high places,”_ he says to Natasha.

“You making fun of me?” The Second forms his mouth into a fond smile. He has seen it on Alexander Pierce’s face many times, and it's easy enough to mimic.

“Always,” the First replies. His whole face brightens when he smiles.

The Second catches himself meeting the grin with one of his own before he turns back to Natasha. “It’s nice to hear you guys talk like this. My Russian is still rudimentary at best, and I know he misses it sometimes,” he says, careful to include a self-deprecating inflection in his tone to make the lie more convincing. He’s of course as fluent in Russian as both Natasha and the First are.

 _“He’s handsome enough to make up for it, I suppose,”_ Natasha says to the First.

 _“He has his uses,”_ the First answers, his grin turning saucy.

She smirks at them both. “I’ll bet.” Natasha then scents the air around them almost casually, almost imperceptibly, but of course, the Second notices. Hyper-awareness is a key skill that both the Soldiers possess. She’ll find nothing amiss, of course. The First and Second are both betas, and even the strongest, keenest alpha would not detect anything, except possibly when threatened. The Soldiers are not a threat to her here, though. She is their ally for now. “Good luck,” she continues, eyes narrowing slightly as she turns directly to the Second. “The compatibility trials aren’t easy.”

“We’re up to the challenge,” the Second assures her. “We” -- he glances at the First -- “just want to help.”

The First shrugs his right shoulder and sets his mouth in a line. “ _If we can,_ ” he says to her.

Natasha extends her hand to him, and when he takes it, she holds on long enough to drag her thumb across his knuckles. “ _We need all the help we can get,_ ” she replies.

The Second cannot take his eyes off her thumb on the First’s hand when he says, “Looking forward to working alongside you, Natasha.”

A predatory smile curves her lips, as she lets the First’s hand drop finally. “Likewise, Erik Moeller,” Natasha says. “Welcome to SHIELD.”

Clint Barton suddenly drops from the rafters and lands quietly on his feet at Natasha’s side. Natasha’s already excellent posture straightens further. “Are we ready for some fun?” he asks. He smiles, open and engaging.

The Second returns it. “Always,” he answers. He turns to the First and adds, “Right, Lev?”

The First matches the smile too, and the Second can see the light in his eyes again. It’s...familiar in a way, but the Second cannot place it. “Right,” the First replies.

\-- -- --

The First knew that the drift compatibility test would be difficult. Just the thought of being strapped in and having the helmet come down over his head, the wires and the electricity, remind him of maintenance, and maintenance scares him. He’s not supposed to be afraid, not supposed to show any kind of weakness, but his body remembers the feeling, even if his head cannot. His unease must be obvious because the Second’s hand slips into his metal one and squeezes, as a female SHIELD agent ( _Agent Maria Hill, former STRIKE team leader, drift compatibility expert, moderate exposure threat_ ) explains the drift simulator procedure.

Her eyes flick down to their joined hands and her lips curve up into a smile even as she continues explaining. The First turns his head and looks at the Second. The Second offers a small smile as well, and the First squeezes his hand back. Gently, mindful of the strength of his metal hand against the Second’s flesh one. The Second’s smile grows bigger like-- like something the First is certain he’s seen before somewhere.

The First shakes his head and lets go of the Second’s hand quickly.

“All right, gentlemen, are we ready?” she asks.

“I believe so, Agent Hill,” says the Second easily. “Ready, Lev?”

The First nods, not quite trusting his control over himself at the moment to speak. His heartbeat practically thunders in his chest as he takes his seat in the chair across from the Second.

“Hey,” says the Second. “We can do this.”

The First gives another sharp nod, steels the expression on his face and reaches up to pull the helmet down over his head. He breathes steadily, slows his heartbeat intentionally. Agent Hill had said she and the doctor will be monitoring the Soldiers’ vital signs and comparing to their resting and working rates. It’s important that he not throw off their expected results with his weakness. It’s important that he focus. He is the Winter Soldier and he is better than the shivery thing that sometimes feels like it’s screaming from the very guts of him.

“All right, Mr. Petrovic, Mr. Moeller, we’re ready to begin the drift simulation.” The doctor’s ( _Doctor Bruce Banner, drift compatibility expert, classified shape-shifting ability, do not engage when anger is imminent, moderate exposure threat_ ) voice is soothing in the First’s ear. “If you feel uncomfortable at any time, just call through the comms, and we’ll shut down. Do you understand?”

“Got it,” answers the Second.

“Yes,” the First replies.

“And remember,” he replies, “we won’t see what’s going through your heads as you attempt to calibrate the neural handshake, so don’t be afraid of accessing memories or feelings that you might be self-conscious about sharing with anyone other than yourselves.”

“And don’t chase the rabbit,” Agent Hill adds. The First imagines he can see the wry smile on her face.

They have been extensively warned about the dangers of locking on and getting lost in a memory, but the First knows that they should have no problem at all in that respect. Whatever memories he and the Second might have shared have long since been burned out of them both. All they have is the cover. All they have are the missions. And this is only a simulation after all.

“All right, here we go,” says Agent Hill.

“Here we go,” repeats the Second, crystal clear in the First’s head. _Oh._

“Neural handshake initiated,” says the doctor, but it’s fainter somehow. The First can barely make it out over the sound of the Second’s--

“--oh,” says the First, though he doesn’t open his mouth.

“Hello,” says the Second.

The First’s mouth curves up in a smile. This is...this is an incredible thing. He can see what the Second is thinking, can feel what he is feeling. He can only imagine what it would be like if when they were out in the field together, they were connected like this.

“Okay,” the Second says, “a more recent mission is likely the best choice for us to fully engage--”

_Fireworks boom and sparkle above them. They lie on a rooftop staring up at the array of colors, close enough to touch. The alpha’s hand circles around the omega’s wrist._

_“It’s for your birthday,” the omega says and turns his head._

_The alpha lights up, brighter than the fireworks. “You say that every year.”_

_“Yeah, well, every year it’s true.”_

_“Yeah, yeah. S’just you trying to cheap out on gettin’ me a real present--” The alpha cuts off on a husky laugh when the omega rolls over and begins pressing kisses to the alpha’s face, over-eager and jubilant._

The Second lets out a low groan, and the First feels it resonate in his own chest. He knows this. He _knows_ this. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but he swears he knows this.

_“Whaddya think you’re doing?” the alpha murmurs._

_He’s so much smaller. His body is so small, his limbs thin and weak. He’s no alpha, he can’t be an alpha, except he is. The omega feels it deep in his bones. Feels it in his loins. Feels the need, the sudden, urgent, aching need. He wants, he needs his alpha._

_The alpha raises a large hand and reaches out, gathers him close, gathers the omega close, and tucks his nose against the hollow of the omega’s throat. He mouths at the skin, sucks against the omega’s adam’s apple, moves down and draws his tongue along the omega’s collarbone._

_The omega whines, high and tight in his throat. “I wasn’t doing anything, honest,” he says, as the alpha pulls back again and smirks at him. “Was gonna-- was gonna--”_

The First grips the arms of the chair tightly, his metal fist crumpling whatever the chair is made out of. It doesn’t concern him, though. He can hear the Second’s heart beating-- no. No, he can _feel_ it. Can feel it as if it were in his own chest. The scent, too, is thick in his nose, heightened by adrenaline or need-- the First doesn’t understand. He tries to blank out, to focus again.

A buzzer goes off, and the First wrenches his eyes open to watch the Second practically rip the helmet from his head. He’s panting, and his eyes are wide and searching.

“Erik! Are you all right?” The doctor’s voice is distorted through the communicator.

The First takes off his own helmet with hands that tremble minutely. He wills himself under control because now is not the time for weakness. Not when his alpha-- no, what? -- when the Second needs him to be strong. “Erik,” he repeats Banner’s question. “You okay?”

The Second just stares back at him searchingly. There's something in his eyes, something confident and clear, something determined and fierce, and it reminds the First so strongly of...of something. Of the fuzzy _before_ , the almost-memories he sometimes finds himself in the midst of before maintenance.

“I’m okay,” the Second finally says. “Little dizzy, maybe. Sorry, Dr. Banner, I-- I just needed to--”

“--it’s all right.” Dr. Banner comes out of the observation room with Agent Hill just behind him. “That’s common for a first drift attempt. Should subside in 15, 20 minutes or so.” He turns to the First, kind eyes shrewd. “Lev, how are you feeling?”

 _Strange_ , he wants to answer, because it's the truth. _Unsettled and curious. Afraid._ But the truth will jeopardize the mission, and so he says only, “Fine.”

“Good, good,” Dr. Banner replies. He exchanges unreadable glances with Agent Hill. “Well, that really was an excellent first attempt. You completed the neural handshake, and we only registered you going down the rabbit hole a bit there at the end.”

“Astonishing, really,” adds Agent Hill. “You’re the first pair we’ve had to nearly complete the drift on the first attempt since Agents Romanoff and Barton, and they're a bonded alpha-omega pair.”

The loaded words set something off in the Second’s chest that the First feels acutely as well. They look at each other from their seats, and the Second cocks his head slightly in a way that makes the First quickly lower his head.

Agent Hill is still talking. “I’d say that earns you a perk or two. Go ahead and take the rest of the evening. We'll reconvene with Stark in the morning. Try you in the actual Jaeger simulator, maybe?”

The Second rises quickly from the chair and staggers. The First is at his side unthinkingly, a hand out to steady him. “Easy, punk,” the First mutters, in a tone of voice that he doesn't recognize.

The Second gives him a wry look and bats his hand away. “M’fine, jerk,” he says.

The First rolls his eyes reflexively. “Sure you are, pal,” he replies. “C’mon, let’s get you back to the room. I’ll take care-a ya.” Something clenches in his stomach as he finishes, and he nearly balks. He has no idea where that came from or what it means, the words and easy tone familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. 

“Okay,” replies the Second. He turns to the doctor and offers a smile. “Thank you, Dr. Banner.”

“Bruce,” says Dr. Banner easily. “Please, call me Bruce.” He returns the Second’s smile and then gives the First a long, considering look. The First lets the shy geniality of _Lev Petrovic_ settle over his face. It must be enough to convince Dr. Banner because he nods and gestures to the door.

The First follows the Second out of the drift simulator, and they walk together back to their quarters. They pass a few other SHIELD teammates on the way, and the First places a hand at the small of the Second’s back. The Second is warm through his thin, sweat-dampened tee-shirt, and the First knows he should pull back, but can’t quite seem to remove his hand. He’s not entirely certain, but it almost feels like the Second is pressing himself back into the contact.

Once they’re through the door of their room, the Second whirls on the First like a mad thing. The scent from the simulator room is still thick, heady, and it’s doing something to the First’s body. He feels the distinct, but bewildering urge to bare his throat, and it takes all of the First’s impeccable control to keep from doing so, especially when the Second gets up closer to him, their faces not far apart.

“What was that?” the Second asks.

The First frowns and lowers his eyes. “We were told the drift would be a challenge,” he replies evenly.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean--” he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise and turns away to pace the small area in front of their bed.

The First’s metal hand curls into a fist involuntarily, and he forces himself to unclench it. It’s an involuntary fight reaction in response to the Second’s tone, but an unnecessary one. He’s not angry at the Second. He’s just as confused, if he allows himself to sift through the hazy layers in his head.

The First has never seen the Second act like this before. They are supposed to be models of perfect control -- both in the field and while waiting for missions. They do not have emotions and they certainly do not have outbursts of feeling. But that is what this must be; the Second is agitated by whatever it was that they shared in the drift. “Something happened in there, something...something changed and you felt it,” the Second growls. “Tell me that you felt it! You felt it!”

The First wants to comfort him, which is as odd a sensation as the First can recall having before. The sudden sharp need to reach out and touch. The want, the desire. The First hasn’t _wanted_ in so very long. He cannot remember, even, the last time. He wants to-- he wants to tilt his head, expose his neck again. He wants to bury his nose in the Second’s throat and inhale the musk of him. But why?

His stomach clenches and he grimaces. The First cannot question. It is not, was never, his place to question the command of his handlers. But-- but is it possible that _Lev Petrovic_ can question? Is this role he has been given enough to allow such a breach in protocol?

“Look at me,” the Second growls.

The First immediately snaps to attention again, eyes wide. He drops to his knees, as effortlessly as breathing. He wants to whine. He wants to beg. He wants so many things, and it terrifies him. Why is this happening? Why?

The Second cocks his head, and his demeanor changes almost immediately. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” the First says quickly, as he pushes himself up again. “I don’t know.”

The Second presses a hand to his chest, and his face twists up in an expression the First feels mirror on his own features. “I can still feel it,” he says, almost too quietly for the First to hear, except that he can hear it ringing through his head.

“Me too,” the First replies.

“Dr. Banner said that could possibly happen after our first time.”

The First nods, even though he doesn’t remember the doctor saying that. “It should go away soon.”

“Right.”

The Second looks troubled, and the First feels it again-- the want, the _need_ to comfort. To take that troubled look off the Second’s face, smooth it into something peaceful. The First takes a few steps forward again until he is close to the Second, looking just slightly up into the First’s eyes. “We did well,” he says. “We did so very well.”

The praise cuts through the pain in the Second’s chest-- the First knows because he can feel it too. “We did,” the Second answers. “We really did.” He raises a hand and places it at the side of the First’s neck.

The First’s eyes close on their own.

“You’re tired,” the Second murmurs after a long moment.

“Yes,” he whispers back.

“Rest now,” orders the Second. “I’ll wake you in four hours and we’ll swap.”

The First nods, immediately steps back and drops onto the bed. Orders, the First understands. He understands them so much more than any of this, any of what’s happened today. Understands them so much better than the confusing feeling of the Second’s hand on his body, in his head and in his heart.

He lies flat at first and stares up at the ceiling, then twists his body into a curve that feels more natural, pressing the side of his face into the pillow. He doesn’t relax or close his eyes. His metal arm pulls heavily at the shoulder, and he tries to settle it to provide the least discomfort.

“Wait,” says the Second, on a soft exhalation. The Second carefully unbuckles the First’s boots and slips them off one by one. The First watches the Second place them next to the duffle bag that holds the other articles of clothing. Then the Second removes his own boots and lines them up as well. He returns to the bed and climbs in behind the First.

The First angles his head as the Second joins him. The scent is thick and heady again, if it ever actually subsided. The First has so many questions, but isn’t sure how to begin asking them.

“Like this.” The Second fits himself along the curve of the First’s back and slips an arm under the First’s metal one. “It should ease the strain,” he mutters.

It does. The shoulder is better supported, and the arm rests evenly. “Are we--” the First’s voice is hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Are we safe like this?”

“We are,” the Second whispers. His nose is pressed against the back of the First’s neck. He inhales deeply and then exhales softly through his mouth.

The First can feel the Second’s parted lips against his skin. “We are,” he echoes. He’s unsure whether or not the Second knew what he was really asking, but the answer melts into him along with the heat from the Second’s body along his back.

\-- -- --

When the Second opens his eyes, he meets the First’s grey ones. They must have shifted during their rest because the Second remembers being pressed along the length of the First the night before. His immediate instinct is to apologize for making another mistake. He is doing this all wrong, and the First is obviously uncomfortable with him again.

Except. No. No, that’s not right.

The First’s heart rate is steady, and his eyes are clear and calm. The tip of his nose touches the Second’s, and his metal hand rests gently on the Second’s hip. His other hand is tucked up underneath the pillow. The Second can feel the steady puff of the First’s exhalations against his own lips. The First isn’t uncomfortable at all. The First is-- the Second doesn’t know the word for this foreign feeling.

“Did you sleep?” the Second asks instead of apologizing. His voice is soft, but he suspects it carries easily in the stillness of the room.

“Yes,” the First whispers back. His hand tightens for a moment, bunches the cloth of the Second’s shorts, then relaxes. “I was...warm.”

The Second’s mouth pulls into a smile involuntarily. “Me too,” he replies. He lifts his hand from where it had been resting in the small space between their bodies and lays it on the First’s cheek. His thumb traces the length of the First’s cheekbone. There’s no one here to observe this interaction -- no audience, no handler, no one watching to make sure that they are who they say they are -- but it feels natural to do it anyway.

The First’s eyes flutter closed under the Second’s ministrations, and he curls in closer, his hand closing over the Second’s hipbone again. “S’nice,” he murmurs, sleepy-soft.

The Second feels it in his chest, like back in the simulator, something cracking apart or breaking open. Something raw inside him. Something that feels like need. Feels like urgent, illogical need. Like the alpha and the omega that he and the First had created in their heads. He can’t explain it-- wouldn’t even know where to begin to try. He wants to ask if the First feels it too. His voice, when it comes after long moments, is hoarse again. “Did you--”

“--shhh.” The First cuts him off without opening his eyes. “M’sleepin’,” he mutters, as he shifts closer still, dipping his head and nosing into the hollow of the Second’s throat.

“Okay, okay,” the Second huffs, and the smile has come back again. Like he cannot help it. Like he’ll always give in if only the First asks it of him. It makes no sense, but the Second decides that right now is not the time to attempt understanding. Not when the First just needs his warmth. “Ten more minutes.”

The First makes a small humming sound in the back of his throat that the Second takes for the First’s agreement. “Ten more minutes,” he then repeats, and the Second feels it vibrate against his skin. “Then we have to get up.”

The Second doesn’t answer aloud, just strokes his hand along the length of the First’s spine, then lets it rest in the hollow just before the swell of the First’s ass. He dips that hand up under the hem of the First’s tee-shirt and presses his hand to the First’s bare skin. He’s so warm. The heat of him seeps into the Second’s hand, and he smiles again, wider still, as his eyes close. The First is warm because of him. He made the First warm. And the Second knows just how much the First hates the cold.

Exactly ten minutes later, the Second opens his eyes again and shifts back just enough to awaken the First and meet his gaze. The First blinks several times and, as clarity rushes back in, he pushes back, removing himself easily from the Second’s grip. “I’m sorry,” says the First, as he rolls away, drops from the bed to the floor and begins a set of push-ups.

The Second tries to ignore the sudden chill that shudders through his body. “Don’t be,” he says, as he pushes himself to sitting. He presses his feet into the floor, letting it ground him, letting it remind him of the mission. That’s all that matters. Erik Moeller and Lev Petrovic are a pair of United States Army veterans who met and fell in love after returning from Afghanistan, and they joined SHIELD to help stop the Kaiju threat. That is all that matters.

“Must have been extra-tired or something. They said the neural bridge can be draining for rookies,” the First continues. His muscles pull taut across his back and thighs, as he holds himself up in a rigid plank.

The Second catches himself staring again. “Right,” he replies, forcing himself to look away and stand up. “I'm going to take a shower. You can go after I'm done.”

“Rumlow will be here to collect us soon,” the First says between huffs of breath as he begins pressing up and down again.

“I’ll be quick.”

The First rolls into his back and begins a regimen of sit-ups. “Don’t use all the hot water, punk,” he says, with a grin that almost as quickly falls from his lips. His face flushes red, and his expression goes quizzical.

“You called me that yesterday too,” the Second says seriously. “You’ve never called me that before.”

The First doesn’t say anything, but his gaze seems to turn inward. The Second knows it well, has done it himself when something felt meaningful in a way and he’d attempted to search for a connection in his head. He also knows what this might mean.

“Rumlow’s going to recommend maintenance,” he says. He doesn’t intend to sound so serious and he certainly doesn't intend for the First’s face to go bloodless and cold.

“Go take your shower,” the First says.

“Wait, I--”

“--go take your shower,” he repeats in a clipped tone.

The Second’s eyes narrow at him. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he scolds, a growl rumbling in his chest and underlying the reprimand. The First’s eyes widen, and he cocks his head ever so slightly, offering his neck. The Second feels it resonate in his chest again, the beauty of that small sign of submission. It makes no sense, but it feels so-- He wishes he could parse out what it means.

The First pushes himself up and rests on his knees, his hands poised to touch the ground, like he wants to crawl over. His face, though, when he speaks again is defiant. “Or what, _Erik_?” he practically purrs.

_Oh._

The Second jerks his chin in a pointed glance at the floor before his feet and waits patiently as the First drops to hands and knees and crawls the short stretch of space between them. It feels a bit like whiplash -- the First was so warm, so cold, and now so hot -- but the Second doesn’t care. It’s for the mission, and he has always been obedient to the directives of his mission.

He reaches down and cups the First by the chin, tugs him until he stands up straight. Their eyes meet, and their breath mingles in the small space between them. The Second inhales shakily, and the First’s pupils dilate, as his gaze flicks down to the Second’s parted lips.

“Or what?” the First repeats, a hushed sound that barely sounds like words.

So this is what desire feels like.

The Second slides his hands down the First’s waist and rests them on the First’s hips.

The door to their bedroom opens with a harsh grating-metal sound. The Second knows better than to spring back from the First, but he feels a sudden and painful feeling of guilt that spreads through him enough to make him casually drop his hands and look away.

Rumlow stands in the doorway, looking unimpressed by what he’s watching. “You’re not ready,” he observes.

“We slept longer than normal,” answers the Second, now stepping away from the First and facing Rumlow. “Optimal recovery time after the initial drift was not properly communicated.”

Rumlow narrows his eyes. “You saying our intelligence was _wrong_ , Soldier?”

The Second straightens up, doesn’t quail at the accusatory tone. “No, just underestimated. None of our agents have experienced an actual drift, nor piloted a Jaeger. It appears to be unique to each individual ranger team.”

“We were more tired than we thought we'd be,” adds the First. 

Rumlow flicks a calculating glance at the First. “That so? Extra exertion, maybe?” His mouth curves suggestively.

The Second steps forward. “The drift is powerful. It connects our minds and we--” He cuts himself off at a small sound from the First that the Second _feels_ rather than hears. He looks down and notices that his hands are clenched in fists. His posture is dangerous, and he is making a serious error in front of his handler. “I’m,” he begins again, less combative, “going to get cleaned up.”

Rumlow assesses him, his gaze traveling the length of the Second’s body and stopping at his eyes. The Second relaxes his posture more, lowers his eyes. Rumlow’s eyes narrow, and he says, quietly, “You do that.”

After one last quick glance to the First, the Second grabs a towel from the back of a chair and goes through the small door to the serviceable bathroom. He turns the shower on and lets the water run warm as he undresses. The knot of unease that’s settled in chest begins to loosen as the water runs over his skin. He presses a hand to the shower wall and bends his head beneath the spray. He cannot remember the last time he had a luxury like this.

He should be quick though, he knows, and not just because the First will want a chance to use the shower before their first full day of work at SHIELD or because Rumlow is impatient. He should be quick because he feels a nearly overwhelming sense of discomfort at the thought of leaving the First alone with their handler. He doesn’t know why he feels that way-- only that he does. So he begins to wash himself quickly, perfunctorily, scrubbing his skin with a soapy washcloth and stepping fully beneath the spray to rinse himself clean.

When he closes his eyes and begins to wash his hair, his brain supplies him with an image of the First crawling across the room. He startles, eyes flipping quickly open again. The sting of the shampoo that catches is nothing compared to the sudden hot spike of desire that lances through him. He wipes his eyes fiercely and then closes them again, determined to ignore the flash-memory and finish cleaning himself, but the image is there again, sharp and clear. The First crawling across the room and pressing the length of his body against the Second’s own. The First, sleepy-soft and warm, burrowing against him in the night.

A soft moan escapes the Second as he runs his hands down the length of his body again and notices that he’s taken interest. He could will it away; he knows how. Knows to regulate his breathing and focus his mind on careful blankness until it softens again. But there’s another way, and the Second decides that _Erik Moeller_ would do it this way because he can.

He presses one hand against the tile to brace himself and then lets the other drift down his torso. The muscles of his lower abdomen seem to jump under his skin as he trails his fingers there lightly, almost tickling. His cock juts out, flushed and wet at the tip, and though it’s been so long since the Second did this, his hand seems to know exactly the right way to encircle it and stroke.

He pulls a low groan from himself, a muttered curse, as he tightens his grip just enough and begins to fuck the circle of his fingers. His hips hump forward, and his toes curl and search for purchase against the slippery floor. He has to lean further forward to press his forehead against the tile, has to spread his legs wider to brace his feet against both side walls. He then changes the orientation of his hand so that he can twist his wrist and rub his thumb over the head of his cock on every thrust inward.

_The First is spread beneath him, hands locked above his head, as the Second straddles his waist. He grinds down against the First’s hips, their cocks are hard and pressed together. It feels-- fuck, it feels--_

The Second comes hard with a throaty moan. His hips jerk forward, chasing the feeling for as long as he can have it. It feels-- it feels-- he doesn’t know. He has no words for it. His entire body is boneless, even as his head is still on fire with desire, buzzing with the need to know what he’s feeling and why. Could he do something like that with the First? Is that allowed? 

( _Erik Moeller and Lev Petrovic could_ , his head whispers.)

The water beats down against the Second’s back, as he comes back to himself in the shower. His cock lays limply between his legs again, and he exhales a shaky breath. Carefully, he rinses off the rest of his body and the evidence of his completion goes down the drain. He turns off the water, steps out of the shower and towels himself dry.

When he steps back out of the bathroom, he finds the First seated on the bed and Rumlow leaned against the wall with his arms folded. They both look up at the Second at the same time.

The Second suspects that Rumlow and the First know exactly what he was doing in the shower, and he feels his skin heat up again. He keeps his eyes on the new task at hand, dressing in the tactical jumpsuit that SHIELD must have provided. When he looks up again, the First is staring at him, head tilted, like he’s trying to figure something out. The Second is sure that his insides are on fire.

“Get a move on,” Rumlow barks at the First. “Before I change my mind about bringing you two here.”

The First starts toward the bathroom, but pauses and turns back when he’s an arm’s reach from the Second. He tosses a casual glance over at Rumlow. “You activated us for a reason. We’ll successfully complete the mission,” he says. He reaches out then and places a hand on the Second’s body. “We always do.”

The Second knows he remembers this, or something like it. Remembers the feeling of the First’s hand at the join of his neck and shoulder. They do not ever speak of these feelings, these almost-memories normally, but the drift has awakened something that the Second wants to explore. Now is the time for exploration, experimentation. If the First is willing.

The look he catches in the First's eye suggests that he might be.

\-- -- --

The First has decided that only thing that Stark _(Anthony “Tony” Stark, beta, president of Stark Industries. Inventor of the Jaeger technology. Genius. Moderate threat.)_ seems to like more than his Jaegers is the sound of his own voice as he’s explaining them. The First’s mouth keeps pulling up into an amused smile and laughter keeps threatening to escape his lips every time he turns his head and catches the look the Second isn’t even bothering to hide, as they both listen to Stark prattle on. It’s all information that they have already received in their debriefing with Dr. Klein, but of course, Stark does not and cannot know that.

“And that sexy beast over there,” Stark says, pointing to the black-and-grey Jaeger in the third holding bay on the left, “is ‘Widow Hawk’. I made her specifically for Nat and Bird Boy.”

The Second elbows the First in the side. _Bird Boy_? he mouths. 

The First manages to hold back a snort of laughter and just elbows the Second back.

Stark hasn’t seemed to notice and continues to brag about “Widow Hawk”. “She’s all about stealth and speed, and her rocket launchers are second to none. ‘Course part of that is the pilots’ ability to aim, but well, they don’t call him Hawkeye for nothing, am I right?”

“You’re right,” the Second says, his expression earnest and his tone interested.

“Damn right, I’m right,” Stark replies, reaching out and cuffing the Second lightly on the shoulder. “But it’s always good to hear it.”

When Stark turns back to the tour, the Second rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out. This time, the First cannot hold back his laughter. Even though he shouldn’t, even though Stark is his superior and can get him into serious trouble which would jeopardize the mission, the First cannot help but chuckle at the Second’s actions. It feels so good to laugh like this, to share this with the Second. It feels so good to be on the Second’s team.

“Ugh,” Stark groans, and reaches back to throw his arm around the Second’s neck, “you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

“We are?” the Second asks.

“Yes, you are, you’re the worst. Nobody appreciates my genius!” Stark answers, but he doesn’t actually sound upset or disappointed, nor that he believes the Second is “the worst”. He must be joking with them too. It feels almost as good as laughing with the Second does.

“You are a regular Einstein, Stark,” the First then says, wanting to join in the fun.

“Well, now that’s just being rude, is what,” Stark replies, but he’s still smiling, his tone is still light, and the First meets his smile with a bright one of his own. “I’m so much smarter than Einstein.”

“Leonardo, then?” the Second offers.

Stark narrows his eyes at them both in turn, but his smile still demonstrates his amusement. He’s not angry at them for talking back. He’s not angry at them for talking at all. “Nah, I don’t paint. Unless you meant DiCaprio, in which case, I’ll take the compliment. He’s a dreamboat.” Stark gives an exaggerated sigh and continues, “I would have found a way to keep him on that damn door, is all I’m saying.”

The First has no idea what Stark’s talking about, but keeps his expression faintly amused to match the Second’s.

“Yeah, all right, anyway, moving along.” Stark starts forward again and gestures to his right. “Now this bad boy to your right is, or was, I guess, ‘Ultra Vision’. See I had this thing, right, where I was going to try to take the danger out of it as much as possible. As previously mentioned,” Stark pauses briefly to give them a rakish grin, “I’m a super genius, and A.I. is kinda my jam, so I designed and built Ultra Vision to be piloted solely by JARVIS, which is--”

“--the intelligence in your Iron Man suit,” the Second interrupts. “Yes, you’d mentioned before.”

The First isn’t sure if Stark did mention that or not, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, and it’s of course possible that the artificial intelligence is as common knowledge as the fact that Tony Stark is Iron Man in the first place. The First squeezes the Second’s hand, trying to communicate the potential judgment error, but the Second just winks and squeezes his hand back. The First braces himself, but no attack comes.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah just keep on with the snark, Moeller,” Stark says, still laughing. “Think you’re so damn cute.”

“I’ve been told I’m extremely cute, actually,” the Second replies.

“The cutest,” the First adds, surprising himself with how easily it slips out.

“Gross,” Stark rejoins, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re both gross. What did I do that was so very bad in this world to be forced to endure this lovey-dovey shit!”

“I think it’s rather sweet.” A woman with her reddish-blonde hair styled in a neat twist and wearing a perfectly-pressed suit ( _Virginia “Pepper” Potts, alpha. CEO of Stark Industries. Wields “Extremis” powers when threatened. High exposure threat._ ) comes to Stark’s side. She turns to the Second and extends her hand. “Pepper Potts, very nice to meet you.”

“I’m Erik, and this is Lev,” the Second answers, as he shakes her hand firmly. “How do you do, ma’am?”

Stark snickers and pokes Ms. Potts in the side. “He called you _ma’am_ ,” he says, in an over-exaggerated whisper.

“And I’m sure Erik will never do it again,” she chides, her tone is just as playful as Stark’s has been, “because he cannot possibly be that much younger than I am.” The First doesn’t understand how they can all be so nonchalant in the way they speak to one another. No one seems to be punished for their insubordination, but rather celebrated for it. It makes no sense, however nice it is.

“No,” the First then says, “he’s just embarrassingly polite, Ms. Potts.”

She laughs brightly. “He’ll have that knocked out of him soon enough around here,” she teases.

“You make it sound like we’re a bunch of brutes,” Stark pouts.

Ms. Potts just rolls her eyes, even as she slips her arm into his and encourages him to start walking again. “Prove me wrong sometime. Now come on, you were showing these handsome men to their Jaeger?”

They start down along the floor again, but the First stops when the Second steps up behind him and slips his arms around the First’s waist. “What are you--”

“--you’re having fun,” the Second murmurs, his lips brushing against the First’s ear. His body is warm against the First’s back, but the First feels inexplicably like he wants to shiver against the contact, especially when the Second dips his head a bit further and noses along at the skin behind the First’s ear.

The First presses back against the solid weight and the Second wraps his arms even more tightly around the First’s waist. “I am,” he answers, “and so are you.”

“I like having fun with you,” the Second says.

The First makes to answer, but Stark calls back to them, drawing them out of their brief moment. “Let’s go, lovebirds! War Clock says a week and a half, tops!” But he’s still smiling, still not angry with them, even though they’ve deliberately held him up, and the First suddenly feels a nearly overwhelming sense of disconnect. It’s never like this, never. He’s never been involved in a mission like this, he’s certain.

Except. Except possibly before. Possibly long before.

There was a man once-- his very first handler. The First can remember him if he tries very, very hard. There was a man he’d have followed to the end of it all, and that man was-- he was--

“Hey,” says the Second, giving the First’s upper arms a gentle squeeze and drawing him back out of the fuzzy memory. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, m’fine,” he mutters back. “C’mon, before he gets pissed off at us.” He jogs forward to catch up with Stark and Ms. Potts, shaking off the irrational anger that had thrummed through him, with the Second following right behind them.

“And that, as I was trying to say before you precious little love monkeys started getting all frisky,” Stark says grandly when they reach him, gesturing up to the red-white-and-blue Jaeger that holds pride of place in the center bay, “is Captain America. He’s all yours, kids.”

The Jaeger is as tall as the others,and it holds a massive round shield that almost looks like a bullseye, but it stands out for more than just its bright color, though the First cannot figure out why exactly. There’s just something about it.

“Captain America?” the Second questions. The First turns, and there’s something unreadable in the Second’s expression that causes him to step closer and slip his hand into the Second’s. “Why do you call him that?”

Stark shrugs, but Ms. Potts gives him a look, and he puts up his hands in surrender. “I may have done it just to fuck with Coulson,” Stark grins. “Guy’s got a huge hard-on for the old Cap, and when I decided to make a Jaeger with a big-ass vibranium shield, I just had to go with it, right? I mean, it’s perfect!”

“Sure,” the Second says, but he appears not to be paying too much attention to Stark. He stares up at the huge Jaeger, assessing. “But this is an old model, isn’t it?”

The easy smile falls from Ms. Potts’s lips, but the Second doesn’t see that either. The First feels a prickle of unease beneath his skin. “It’s the last of the Mark Threes,” she answers.

Stark’s face has also turned serious for the first time since they began speaking, and Ms. Potts places a hand on his forearm. “Yeah, well, the Captain was decommissioned after...well, ah,” Stark hedges, as he reaches up his free hand and drags it through his hair.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tony,” Ms. Potts says quietly. “You know that.”

“I know, I know, it’s just-- oh fuck it.”

Stark abruptly straightens, as if steeling himself, and the First feels the sudden and confusing urge to step forward and brace Stark up. Like it’s something that he did once or always does or always did when someone needed him to do it. The First suppresses another baffling shiver and forces himself to listen attentively. He knows what story Stark is going to tell them already, but somehow it feels important to really listen, rather than just hear it again.

“The Captain was piloted by a pair of, well, I don’t know, ah,” Stark begins, “I guess, well, my buddy Thor’d call them ‘shield brothers’ or something all noble and shit like that. They were military, like you two, only Air Force, pararescue. This, ah, this program thing with wings instead of ‘chutes, it was like a whole thing, pretty fucking cool actually, but anyway, I--”

“--Tony, it’s okay,” the Second suddenly interrupts. The First marvels at the sound of the Second’s compassion. It sounds so real. “What were their names?”

Stark frowns and looks at the ground. “Andrew Riley and Sam Wilson,” he says quietly. “It was a little over three years ago. First category three Kaiju that had come through the breach, and it was like...it was like it had adapted or something. It just _knew_ what Cap was gonna do. And it, well, it…”

“The Kaiju was able to penetrate Captain America’s shield,” Ms. Potts took over, when Stark came to a loss for words again. “Riley was ripped from the head and killed, but we were able to save Sam Wilson.”

“Sam quit flying, obviously. I mean, wouldn’t you? He was in Riley’s head when he fucking died,” Stark adds bitterly, though the First suspects the bitterness is not for Sam Wilson’s leaving the team, but for the loss in general. “I rebuilt Cap anyway, reinforced things, made it fucking impenetrable this time, but he hasn’t had a pilot since those two.”

“Until now,” says the Second, determination glowing fiercely in his eyes. He spares a glance to his side and the First returns it with a sharp nod of agreement. “We’ll do you proud, Tony. For Wilson and Riley.”

Stark meets the Second’s gaze, seems to assess him for a long moment, and then nods. The smile on his face seems more strained than before, but no less genuine for it. “Yeah, I think you will, buddy,” he says, then extends his hand for the Second to take. The Second shakes it decisively, and then Stark repeats the gesture for the First.

As the First takes Stark’s hand and shakes it, he feels that same odd sensation again: the desire to comfort, to reassure, to really help. It’s so much more than the feeling of need he sometimes gets during missions, when the fire of adrenaline and the promise of praise and reward when he completes his work is what motivates him. This desire is something he’s created all on his own, and while it may be selfish, he finds he wants to chase it, act on it anyway. Perhaps Lev Petrovic is a selfish person who wants to help his colleagues, his superiors, his friends to make himself feel good, to satisfy that need.

“Thank you for trusting us with this, Tony,” the First then says. He squeezes Stark’s hand once before letting it drop. Stark meets his eyes, and there’s surprise there, but also gratitude. “We won’t let you down.”

The First becomes very aware then of the Second at his side, and he turns to see the Second looking back at him with unguarded happiness on his face. His grin is bright, and his eyes are huge. He looks happy and proud and pleased, and the First suddenly and unequivocally realizes that he wants to see that kind of look on the Second’s face all the time. He wants always to make the Second smile, always to make him happy.

“What are you looking at?” the First says, intending it to be playful, but it comes out huskily, and he finds his mouth is dry.

“Just you,” the Second says, as he reaches for the First. His large hands cup the First’s face, angling it up to meet his own. “Just you.”

Their lips meet tentatively at first, but then First’s mouth parts on its own, and the Second slots his lips along the space between. It feels like-- the First is certain like he’s never been before that he _remembers_ this. He doesn’t know it from debriefing or from explanation -- he remembers it. Remembers kissing someone like this before, with urgency and passion and building need. Remembers-- was it the Second? No. But-- but could it have been? That’s impossible, certainly-- but is it?

The sound of applause and a few wolf-whistles draw the First out of his memory, out of this kiss. His eyes flutter open, and he meets the Second’s dazed expression with one he’s certain matches exactly. Then, the Second presses his forehead to the First’s own and whispers, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you in there. I promise.”

The First gasps, as something unexplainable lances through him at the Second’s words. The conviction or the gesture, whatever it is, the First doesn’t know exactly, but whatever it is makes him feel safer and more secure than he has ever felt in his long, long life. The Second means it, and it feels _real_. It feels like the Second is meant to take care of him and to protect him, just like he, in turn, wants to take care of and protect the Second.

“Gross!” Stark is suddenly yelling, holding out the oh-sound for far longer than necessary.

The First turns his head, and the Second takes a step back, face flushed, but eyes clear and happy. “You’re just jealous,” the Second rejoins.

Stark steps forward and slaps the Second on the back. “Yeah, pal, that’s exactly it. Now come on, you disgustingly, treacly sweet little bastards. I wanna see you drift in the simulator before I let you play with the big guns.” He loops his arm around the Second’s neck again, even though he’s shorter and the angle is all wrong, and starts dragging the Second back down the length of the holding bay.

The First falls back to walk alongside Ms. Potts, but they are quickly joined by Agent Hill and--

“That was some display,” says Rumlow.

Their handler’s voice is genial, but the First knows better than to trust it. He straightens up and consciously wills the smile from his face, trying to ignore the rising panic in his chest. Why he’s feeling it, he doesn’t know. He and the Second are only playing their parts, only acting out the cover they are supposed to act. But the nerves and the guilt attack the First anyway, and he takes a fortifying breath as stealthily as he can.

“Ain’t love grand?” says Agent Hill, as she bumps her hip against Rumlow’s. “You know, we could be cute like that if you’d ever ask me on a date, Brock.”

“We’re not that cute,” the First says, emphatically but unhurriedly. Rumlow can’t know. He can’t.

“Maria Hill, I’ll ask you out on a date when we’re no longer swimming in Kaijus,” Rumlow replies to her.

“I am holding you to that!” She laughs and extends a hand, gesturing to Ms. Potts and the First in turn. “I’ve got witnesses, you all heard him. Right?”

“Right, Maria,” replies Ms. Potts. “You’re stuck now, Brock.”

“Yeah, but there’s no better place in the world to be.” Rumlow winks at her and then offers a nod to Agent Hill. “You and me, Tavern on the Green, the day we close that breach for good.”

The First wonders if this is part of the cover too, but then Rumlow looks at him assessingly, and a cold shiver of dread travels through him. “Come on,” the First says, “we should catch up before Tony tries to steal Erik from me.”

“I certainly wouldn’t put it past him,” says Ms. Potts with a roll of her eyes. “But I’m told it would be a crying shame to split the pair of you up. Agent Hill made it seem like you and Erik were born to drift together.”

“Maybe they were,” says Rumlow.

The First doesn’t answer, but picks up his pace a bit. He won’t look back at Rumlow. He won’t see what he’s afraid is written all over Rumlow’s face.

\-- -- --

The Second Winter Soldier has always needed additional maintenance. A second round in the chair before being sent to sleep. Though it’s never been confirmed, or at least not below a certain clearance level, Brock’s heard the rumors that it’s because the Second has the _real_ supersoldier serum instead of the knock-off shit that Zola developed back during World War Two. Which, if it is true, would explain a whole hell of a lot about why the Second can be such a fucking pain in the ass on missions. (It would also be so fucking _cool_.)

But at the same time, it’s Brock’s general opinion that it’s a huge waste of time and resources to keep maintaining the Second, especially when they’ve got about a hundred other people, himself included, who would serve the cause without having to be conditioned to do it. He gets it, he really does, these relics have sentimental value to guys like Pierce and whatever the fuck Zola is passing for these days, but when you’re fighting a secret war, it makes a hell of a lot more sense to use weapons that work without constantly having to be recalibrated, doesn’t it?

But Brock would never actually share that opinion out loud because while working for an organization like HYDRA is all well and good ideologically, it doesn’t exactly have a lot going for it in the trust department. A good friend one day is an enemy the next, he only has job security as long as he remains valuable, and anything he says out loud is definitely being written down and catalogued by whoever just might need that little bit of something extra at his next performance review.

The problem is that this memory wipe has to be targeted incredibly specifically because they don’t exactly have a ton of time before they have to get back to the SHIELD base. They also definitely don’t have the time to stick the Second back in cryo, which is where the real work of the wipe usually happens, giving it time to settle in his brain. 

So Brock honestly has no idea whether or not this is going to have much of an effect on the Second, but as he watches the Second glare at the techs who are leading him to the chair, he knows that at the very least it’s going to show the Second who still has the authority here. 

“Sit back,” Brock orders. “Don’t make me come over there.”

The Second darts a glance at him with narrowed eyes, but he complies. Even opens his mouth nicely. He keeps his eyes on Brock as the tech inserts the bit and attaches the last few delicate wires before stepping back to safety behind the perimeter.

“We’re ready, sir,” the other tech says, as she takes her place at the control panel. “Charging.”

Brock holds a hand up, waits for it...waits for it-- there it is. The Second’s breathing speeds up, sharp, panicked inhalations through his nose and exhalations through his gritted teeth, and his hands grip the arms of the chair. “Clear!” he calls out.

The technician flips the switch, and electricity jolts through the Second’s head. He doesn’t scream though, and it always disappoints Brock more than he wants to admit. The Second never lets the pain show. His fear, maybe, but never the pain. Not like the First who screams around the bit.

“Again,” Brock says, when the first charge ends. “Wait a second, and then hit him again.”

The Second’s eyes are open wide, and he continues to breathe painfully fast, but he doesn’t try to speak around the bit. They slam shut again when the electricity pulses through him again.

“You’re here rather sooner than we’d expected.” 

Brock turns to see Dr. Klein walking down the stairs from her office. “Oh yeah?” he replies.

“Yes,” she says. “You’ve only been out in the field with them for a little over a week, Rumlow.”

He can hear the implication in it: that he’s not capable of handling the assets, that he’s failing in his mission. He refuses to rise to it, however, and just responds, “Next Kaiju attack isn’t projected to be all that far off. Nobody wanted to waste any time, I guess.”

“Apparently,” she replies disdainfully, coming to a stop next to him.

“Again--”

“Careful now,” Dr. Klein cuts him off, now sounding amused, “you don’t want to fry too much. He’ll be a vegetable.”

“Shut up, I know what I’m doing.” But the truth is, he doesn’t really. There’s a reason he usually isn’t involved in the science of this shit. Brock is built for action. He’s built to protect and to destroy. He’s built to handle them in the field. 

But that’s why he’s here now. Because he needs to handle them. When he’d watched the Second pull the First into a kiss that looked genuine, when he’d watched the way the Second couldn’t stop touching the First after they’d successfully drifted in the simulator, when he’d point blank asked the Second what his name was, and the Second had stuttered over the cover, Brock knew that the Second needed maintenance.

“What about the other one?” asks Dr. Klein. She folds her arms across her chest, looking skeptical. 

“He’s fine.” Brock shrugs, thinking of the First’s vacant stare and quiet, but correct responses to the control questions. “And even if he’s not, the problem’s with this one,” he adds, jerking his thumb at the Second. “We zap him enough, the First’ll fall back in line. Always does.”

“Better hope that you’re right,” she replies.

Brock can hear the warning there too. His jaw works and he turns to glare at her for a moment before he turns back to the technician and says, “One more time.”

\-- -- --

The Second awakens to find the First standing at the foot of the bed with his arms folded against his broad chest. His expression is blank, but tension radiates from the set line of his shoulders, and the Second immediately assumes the worst. “Are you okay?” he asks, pushing himself up to sitting. The First says nothing, looks even more blank if possible, and the Second’s stomach turns over on itself. “Did Rumlow take you in?” he adds. “I thought he might after…” He trails off, as his mind comes upon a blank space where he’s certain that there was an image before.

“After what,” the First prompts.

The Second starts to get out of the bed, but pauses. His mouth pulls down into a frown, his eyebrows furrowing. His head aches noticeably, and he reaches up a hand to press at the back of his neck. He suddenly feels vulnerable and weak, and he realizes why and what it means. “He took _me_ in, didn’t he? I was...but why? Did something happen? Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

He doesn’t expect an answer, but the First surprises him and says, firmly, “No, you didn’t. But I did.” The Second’s shock must be evident on his face because the First quickly adds, “I did. I made a mistake. It wasn’t your fault, it was mine.”

“What did you do?” the Second asks, curiosity winning out over the instinct to challenge the First and insist on his own fault. He has no idea what the First could be talking about, though, which means it must have been burned out of him during his round in the chair.

“I liked it when you kissed me,” says the First.

The Second is struck dumb by the direct answer. His mouth drops open to reply, but he can’t find a single thing to say. The First had...had liked being kissed. The First had liked the way the Second had pulled him close, touched his face and fit their mouths together. He remembers the moment now, remembers it clearly, despite what Rumlow must have done. Remembers the scent of the First’s skin, remembers the look in the First’s eyes as he pulled back, remembers wanting nothing more than to lean back in and kiss him breathless again. Remembers the words he whispered against the First’s lips, the vow that the Second realizes he would do absolutely everything in his power to keep.

He doesn’t know why though. He has no idea why the impulse is so strong, only that it is. Only that he feels it in his heart, which is so much stronger than his head. His head is a wasteland of half-formed memories of missions and kills, but the heart that stubbornly keeps beating on and on, no matter what happens to him, no matter what they do to him, is full to bursting with the impulse to keep the First safe from harm.

“Close your mouth, punk, ‘fore the flies get in,” the First says, his mouth twisting up wryly. It doesn’t reach his eyes, though, and the smile fades quickly.

“I don’t understand,” the Second replies after a long moment. “What does that have to do with him taking me in? Isn’t it just part of the...well, isn’t it the cover? We’re supposed to be in love. Did I do it wrong?”

“No, I think...I think you…” The First struggles with whatever he’s trying to say, and then he turns away, obviously frustrated with himself.

The Second gets up off the bed and takes a few steps forward towards the First. “Did I do it wrong?” he repeats, in a quieter voice.

The First is radiating tension again, the column of his spine a taut line and his shoulders hunched up and rigid. “No, you didn’t do it wrong,” he says, through what sounds like gritted teeth.

“Then what,” the Second says, but doesn’t continue. 

The First cocks his head, and the Second steps up behind him. Has the urge to put his hands on the First's back, to rub away the tension. (Erik Moeller could do it without hesitation. Erik Moeller has permission to touch Lev Petrovic whenever he wants because they are lovers and lovers can touch.) The Second lifts his hands, gives into the urge because he can, whether he is Erik Moeller or the Second Winter Soldier or something else entirely. He lifts his hands and places them on the First’s shoulders. The fingers on his left hand trail for a moment along the seam where metal and flesh meet, and the First inhales a sharp breath, before they settle more firmly on the First’s body.

“Feels real.”

 

"What?"

"This," the First quietly replies. "This--what we are here."

"The cover?" The Second holds his breath.

The First nods. "The cover." He falls silent for so long the Second almost says something else, but then: "What do you think that means?"

The Second doesn't have an answer. He also doesn't remember the last time the First asked a real question. It's meaningful, though. The Second is certain of that. “I don’t know,” he answers, honestly.

“I wish I knew,” the First replies. “I wish I knew so badly.”

The Second feels the weight of that wish as heavily as if it were a physical thing. “I wish I did too,” he says, practically burning with determination. “I wish I could tell you what it means. I want to tell you. I want to tell you everything.”

The First turns around then, forcing the Second to drop his hands. “I wish I knew what I was asking,” he says fiercely. 

The Second wishes he had an answer for that too, but he draws a blank. There’s so much that has been taken away over the years. So much that has been obliterated by maintenance and conditioning. He wouldn’t even begin to know where to start. He has no idea how much he’s lost. But he wants to know, and he wants to share that knowledge with the First.

He suddenly registers the pain in his head again, but doesn’t understand why it’s so. Maintenance hurts while it’s happening and not after, and his body, though it can feel pain, heals too quickly for things like headaches and muscle aches to be much of a problem for him. This pain isn’t sharp or splitting, but it throbs dully in the back of his skull and radiates down to his neck and shoulders. It’s tension, he knows, and he wants-- but no, he can’t ask for that. Can he? He wants the First to touch him, rub his back in just the way that he had wanted to do for the First. Can he just ask?

“You’re hurting,” says the First.

“I’m fine,” the Second says, and it’s the correct response, if not the accurate one.

“Sure ‘bout that?”

“I’m said I’m fine,” the Second insists, even though he isn’t.

“Don’t lie to me, pal,” the First replies. “Can always tell when you’re lyin’.”

It’s that strange tone again, that regional accent that is wrong for Lev Petrovic and wrong for the First, but somehow doesn’t actually feel all that wrong at all. The Second lowers himself back onto the bed and cradles his head in his hands. “My head hurts,” he mutters almost to himself, but the First can still easily hear him.

“Let me take care of you,” answers the First, and he climbs on his knees onto the bed and presses up behind the Second before he can say anything. The First puts his hands on the Second’s shoulders and begins to massage them.

A moan pulls itself from the Second’s throat as his neck curls and his torso dips further forward under the firm pressure of the First’s hands. 

“Feel good?” the First murmurs, as he works his hands down the length of the Second’s spine, kneading muscles that have pulled taut with the strain of the last week.

Nothing has ever felt as good as this feels, the Second is certain, until--

The First’s lips ghost along the skin at the back of the Second’s neck, and a shiver works its way through the Second’s overwarm body. “Is this okay?” the First asks, and the Second feels it vibrate through him. The First presses another kiss a little lower down, a little closer to the Second’s ear, and another closer still. “Is this what you wanted before? Is this how we should--”

The Second cuts him off by whirling on him and pinning him, willingly, to the bed beneath them both. Because of course this is what he wants. Even if he doesn’t know why he’s so forcefully drawn to the First, even though he knows that this isn’t part of the mission, even if he could be taken back for maintenance a hundred thousand times for making the same mistake as before. The only thing that the Second is absolutely certain of is that he wants to be kissing the First.

He presses his lips to the First’s, but it’s different this time. The intent is not the same as it was out on the floor where everyone could see. This isn’t a kiss that’s sealing a promise, nor is it a kiss that’s meant to be proof of a relationship that doesn’t exist. This is a kiss of hunger, a kiss of molten desire.

The Second breathes in through his nose, inhaling the scent now radiating from the First, and fuck, but it smells so good that the Second feels like he could roll around in it forever and never tire of it. His lips part, and his tongue presses forward to lick and twist against the First’s.

The First hums around the kiss, and the Second just knows if he was to open his eyes, he’d see the First smiling out of it too. The First’s smile, the real one, the one that has nothing or everything to do with this perfect cover story that feels real to him, is a thing of beauty, and he wants to see it right now, so he pulls back from kissing him just enough that he can open his eyes and see.

“What are you looking at?” The First asks, breathless. His lips are swollen and wet, but his mouth is stretched in that beautiful open grin.

The Second doesn’t know how to answer without sounding overly-romantic or tender, but he realizes that it doesn’t matter to him. He doesn’t care if the First thinks him sentimental. He cares only that he’s made the First smile with such unguarded affection. “I like how you look when I kiss you,” he quietly says, lifting a hand to trace his thumb across the First’s bottom lip. “It feels like a memory.”

The First’s eyes widen, and he looks uncertain for a moment. “You mean…” He trails off, and the Second understands why.

“From the before,” he adds firmly, keeping his gaze fixed on the First, searching for recognition.

They’re not supposed to know about the before, but it slips through sometimes, no matter how many times they’ve each been sent to the chair. They’re not supposed to know about who they were before they became the fists of HYDRA, but sometimes on the longer of his missions, the Second can recall things he has no context for otherwise. They’re ripped from him time and again, but every so often, the fragments begin to tie together.

The First exhales shakily and then, carefully, deliberately, tilts his head and bares his neck. “Kiss me again,” he requests in a low voice.

And for the first time since this mission began, the Second feels totally and completely confident that he can give the First exactly what he needs. The Second bends his head and tucks his nose into the hollow of the First’s throat. The scent only increases in intensity, and the First shudders beneath him, as the Second mouths along the skin there. “What do you think you’re doing?” he whispers, grinning widely when he pulls back to see the recognition bloom in the First’s eyes. He then bends his head back and sucks on the First’s adam’s apple.

“I wasn’t doing anything, honest,” the First whispers back. “Was gonna-- was gonna--”

“--what,” the Second interrupts him, then closes his teeth gently around the First’s collarbone.

The First moans long and low, arching his back upward to press closer to the Second’s mouth. The Second flattens his tongue along the bone, then drags it downward to circle around the First’s nipple. It draws another moan from deep in the First’s chest, and the Second tips his head back with a grin.

“What comes next?” the Second asks, then blows out a breath over the First’s nipple.

Goosebumps raise on the First’s skin, and he clutches at the Second’s back, tugging him closer still, even as he tries to get out the next part of the memory. “I-- I wanna-- please let me--” He cuts himself off on a pleasure-filled cry, as the Second lightly drags his teeth over the hardened nub. “Ah, fuck, fuck, I can’t...I can’t--”

“--you can,” the Second tells him, muttering the words into his skin. He presses kisses in a line down from the First’s sternum, over his abdominal muscles to his lower belly. “Tell me what you wanted to do. Tell me what comes next.”

“Was gonna ask my alpha to fuck me!” he cries out, thrusting his hips up, as the Second trails his tongue along the First’s exposed hip bone. And it’s okay because even though they’re both betas, tonight they can be the little alpha and the omega. They can be whomever they want to be here.

The Second sits up, smiling as the First raises his hips in an attempt to follow. “Is that all?” he teases. “Just a little thing like that?”

“Oh, please,” the First replies, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, I want it so bad. I want you to give it to me. Can you? Can you give it to me? Please?”

The Second’s chest rumbles with a pleased growl, as he reaches for the waistband of the First’s shorts. “I can give you everything,” he says. The First lifts his hips again, and the Second eases the shorts down, pulls them off and throws them to the floor. “I’m gonna give you everything.”

He’s seen the Second naked before, he suddenly remembers, but not like this. Or...or possibly exactly like this: laid bare, spread like a banquet, flushed and hot. His cock juts out, hard and leaking at the tip, and the Second has never wanted to taste something more in his life. And fuck, but he _can_ , he realizes. He can taste the First.

He lowers his head and presses his nose into the thatch of dark curls, inhaling the scent, so much stronger and more concentrated here at the site of the First’s arousal. “Fuck,” the First exhales shakily. Then, “Please, oh please, please.” 

“You know this, don't you?” the Second asks.

“I remember your mouth,” the First replies. He pushes up on his elbows and looks down at the Second between his legs. His heavy-lidded eyes slowly widen as he fights for each piece of the memory they are chasing, and his chest heaves with exertion. “I-- I remember your mouth. You would,” he swallows hard, “take me all the way in, even when...even when…”

“When what?” the Second prompts again, and lets his lips brush teasingly against the head of the First’s cock. 

The First’s hips twitch up as he whines softly. “Erik, please,” he begs. 

It jars, but the Second isn't sure why exactly. It isn't quite right. They can be anyone tonight, but he doesn't want to be Erik Moeller. Erik Moeller isn't the little alpha. “Don't call me that,” he murmurs, pulling back enough to really look at the First. The First meets his gaze, breathes a bit unsteadily, looks a bit confused. The Second exhales slowly, steadies his own voice. “Please, don't call me that.”

The First cocks his head, then nods slowly once. The Second suddenly feels shy and ducks his head. “Sorry, pal,” the First then says, drawing his attention again. His mouth curves up in a smirk. “Can't help myself when you're down there lookin’ so pretty for me.”

The Second exhales sharply through his nose and grips the First's thighs, the fervor returning easily. The First's body is as beautiful as his smile, and the scent still surrounds them. The Second wants to burrow into the First’s skin, still wants to taste him. “Then tell me what you remember about my mouth,” he whispers, then lowers his mouth to the First's cock again.

He presses a kiss to the damp tip, as the First attempts to answer. “You can, fuck, ohhhhh!” the First cuts off on a long moan, as the Second wraps his lips around the head and starts to suckle gently. 

“What was that?” the Second asks around the First’s cock. It feels natural to keep teasing, natural to play with the First rather than just to give him what he needs easily. The Second grins, and then goes back to pressing kisses along the length of the First instead. “What can I do?”

“You--you, oh fuck doll, you can take me all the way down. You can swallow me down, even though, fuck, fuck!” He dissolves into curses when the Second does exactly that, sucking the full length of him all the way into his mouth and swallowing a little so that he can feel the First all the way in his throat. “Fuck, just like that, baby, just like that!”

The Second pulls off the First with a wet pop. “If you want more,” he replies, “you’re gonna have to tell me what I can do with this mouth.”

The First whines, high and tight. “You’re gonna be the death of me, punk,” he says.

“Tell me, jerk,” the Second replies, as he skates his lips up and down the side of the First’s cock. “What can I do with this mouth?”

“You can swallow me all the way down,” the First grits out, “even though it takes away your air.”

The Second hums in the back of his throat, pleased. “And I’ll always give you my air,” he replies. And he sees it, in his head, the little alpha wheezing and coughing, but still taking every inch of the omega’s cock into his throat with valiant determination. “I’ll give you everything.”

“Please, baby,” the First urges. “I want it. I want you.”

The Second swallows him down again in response, hollowing his cheeks and taking the First in as far as he can. The First reaches his hands down and slips them into the Second’s hair, tugging almost too hard, except that it feels so very, very good. The sharpness of the pain spreads down the Second’s nerves and dissolves into pleasure. He hums around the First’s cock, then begins bobbing his head up and down in a steady, driving rhythm.

“Oh shit!” the First cries out. “You’re so-- you’re so-- fuck, baby, you’re so…” He dissolves into a long moan.

The _sounds_ he’s making are practically vibrating through the Second, and when he pulls off the First’s cock and begins to mouth at the First’s balls, the resulting cry just makes the Second want to keep going. He wants to taste every inch of the First. And fuck, but he still can. The First wants him to give everything, and he will. 

The Second gets his hands under the First’s ass, lifts him up a bit and spreads him open. He pulls the First to his mouth again, presses his tongue against the tight ring of muscle and licks in a flat circle. The Second bites out something halfway between a curse and a strangled cry, something that doesn’t even sound like words, but nevertheless clearly articulates how he feels -- how the Second is _making him feel_.

He can feel it continuing to build, the heady, urgent need swelling in his own body, as he works his tongue over the First, but he can put aside his own arousal for now in the service of continuing to make the First shiver and writhe beneath him. But it won’t hold for long. The First is too hot, smells too enticing and looks too inviting. 

The First is babbling incoherently now, crying out for more, thrashing his head from side to side, as the Second works him open with lips and tongue. The Second manages to get a finger inside the First as well, and the tight heat he can feel nearly knocks him over. He suddenly and intensely wants to fuck into that tight, wet heat. He wants to rut into this perfect body, this body that’s opening up for him, this body that’s responding to him and to him alone. His perfect, perfect omega.

He pulls back so he can speak, but keeps his finger in the First’s body, crooking it and stroking along the inside of him. “Can my omega get wet for me?” the Second asks, his voice ragged. “Come on, get wet for me.” 

He doesn’t expect it, as he presses his tongue back against the First’s hole, but then, like some kind of absurd wish fulfillment, the First’s inner thighs and ass slicken with heat. “Oh!” the Second cries out in wonder.

“Fuck, please, now, now baby, I need you now!” the First cries out, and the Second has to hold down on his hips to keep him from thrashing up off the bed entirely. “Please, give it to me now, I need it. I need it!”

The Second doesn’t think he could hold off even if he tried. The First’s scent is rolling over him in waves, almost making him dizzy with want. His cock is hard as diamonds in his pants, begging to be released and to be buried in the tight heat of the First’s ass. With a strangled cry, he pulls back and shoves his own pants down and off.

The First rolls over and presents his ass, and the Second almost trips in his haste to get his hands back on him. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, as he runs his hand over the curve and then grips tightly. “My perfect omega. So, so beautiful.”

“Please, please give me my alpha, please,” the First whimpers. He tries to tip forward, as if to press his face into the bed, but the Second gets an arm around his waist and tugs him back up again.

“Stay with me,” the Second says in his ear, “I wanna feel you.” His cock rubs smoothly along the cleft of the First’s ass, and he thrusts up against the First a few times before the First positions himself with his knees spread wider, opening himself up more to the Second.

Slowly, as though he’s never done this before, the Second presses the head of his cock against the slick heat of the First’s hole. The First makes a small encouraging noise, and then, finally, finally, the Second pushes inside him, sheathes all the way in with a moan.

The First cries out, his body accepting every inch and clenching down when the Second is fully seated. He rolls his hips, and now the Second cries out. The tight heat feels so amazing, almost too much, almost overwhelming, but he also knows that he’s never wanted anything more than he wants this.

It becomes easy then to move. It takes a couple of tries to establish a rhythm, and the First tries to tip forward again. The Second knows it would be easier, would feel so good to press down on the First’s lower back and rut into him from behind, but he doesn’t want it that way. He wants it like this. He wants to feel the whole of the First’s body, hug him close to his chest, feel them working in tandem together to take their pleasure. So he doesn’t let the First go, only holds him the closer.

“Come on,” the First urges. “Harder!”

“So greedy,” the Second replies, but thrusts harder all the same. The First rises up on his cock and the Second pulls him back down as he thrusts up in tandem. The First moans long and low, and the Second feels suddenly like he’s floating. His body is working hard, but his head is beautifully empty of anything other than the First’s cries.

He knows the moment something changes. His rhythm stutters briefly as his cock begins to swell at the base, hardening further, and fuck, _fuck_ , the First’s body struggles for only a moment, but then takes it, _takes it in and keeps it_.

And it doesn’t...it makes absolutely no sense at all, it can’t even be possible, but--

The First turns his head and tilts it up, and the Second catches the look in his eyes. They’re wide open, and his mouth parts on a breathless whine, but none of it looks like pain. It’s wonder and pleasure at the same time, this phenomenon, this inexplicable knot that’s swelled and is fusing them together. It shouldn’t be happening because they’re both betas, and betas don’t knot, it just doesn’t happen, they can’t and they absolutely _don’t_ knot. The Second knows this because it’s a fact that’s been burned into his head from day one by his handlers. It’s something that they’ve never, ever let him forget, so he knows it’s true.

But it’s happening right now, he’s knotted so tight inside the First, and it feels like something he’s been waiting his whole life to do. The Second wraps his arm tighter around the First’s chest and lets his face press into the sweat-slick skin at the side of the First’s neck. He inhales deeply, and the scent nearly overwhelms him because it’s so _familiar_. He doesn’t know how it can be, but it is.

“You smell like you’re mine,” he whispers raggedly against the First’s skin.

“I am yours,” the First replies, voice high and tight in his throat. “I’m yours.”

A low growl rumbles through his chest at the admission, crashing through whatever tightness and uncertainty may have remained and spreading warmth throughout his body. He speeds up his thrusts, short and sharp as they are, and the First’s head tips back further to fall back on his shoulder. “You’re mine,” he says urgently. “You’ve always been mine.”

“All-always,” the First stutters. “Y-yours always. Fuck, I’m gonna-- I’m gonna-- please, please can I--”

“--come for me, baby,” the Second urges, the endearment slipping as easily from his lips as if he’d always used it. He moves his free hand to grasp the First’s cock and begins to stroke him quickly. “Go on, come for me, doll. I want to feel you come on my knot.”

The First whines again, thrusting his hips up to fuck the Second’s fist and back down on the Second’s cock. It must be too much, the Second doesn’t know how he can possibly stand it, all that pleasure, that feeling of being so incredibly full and chasing the release. “Please, please, I want-- I want to-- please!” The First’s hips stutter, still briefly, and then with a whine, he begins to shoot his release out over the Second’s knuckles.

His orgasm also causes his body to clamp down on the Second’s cock, on his knot, and then suddenly, the Second is coming too. He thrusts into the welcoming heat, riding it out, practically growling as the pleasure surges through his body, tenses in his stomach and thighs. His mind whites out and he sees nothing, feels nothing but the pure ecstasy of his release.

It feels like a memory.

It feels like a midsummer night, with the windows open to let in the breeze, even though the stench of garbage and the sounds of the city come in with it. Even with the breeze, it’s still almost oppressively hot, but they don’t care. They’re still twined tightly together. The little alpha’s knotted into the omega, and they belong like that. They belong together.

The Second chases the last aftershocks of it, thrusting weakly into the First’s body until he can’t anymore, exhausted and spent. But when he tries to disengage, his body doesn’t let him. He hisses with the sudden sharp pain.

“Not yet,” the First mutters. He sounds as wrecked as the Second feels. “You can’t pull out yet. Please, please, not yet.” He reaches behind himself to hook his hand over the back of the Second’s neck, keeping him in place.

“No,” the Second responds, stunned. “No, I can’t. It won’t...it won’t let me.” And, he realizes, he doesn’t actually want to either. He wants to stay like this as long as the First will let him. The exertion catches up to him, though, and he can feel his thighs beginning to tremble under the duress of keeping rigid for fear of hurting either of them.

“Here, like this.” The First shifts a little and then together, carefully, they manage to lie down, the First’s back pressed against the Second’s chest. “Just like this,” the First manages, on an exhale, as they settle.

He doesn’t know how long they lay there together, the First wrapped up in his arms, their legs entwined on the bed even long after his knot has softened enough to let them separate. Finally, the First begins to shift again, turns over in the Second’s embrace and looks him in the eyes. The Second wants to look away, suddenly terrified that he’s going to see regret or anger or fear in the First’s eyes, but he holds steadfast instead.

The First’s eyes are wide and searching the Second’s face for something, and so the Second smiles softly. The First sighs, as if satisfied, and then tucks his face into the crook of the Second’s neck. “I’m yours,” he murmurs against the Second’s skin.

The Second relaxes against the First, gathering him in close, and affirms, “And I’m yours.”

\-- -- --

The First didn’t realize how much weight he had been carrying around until the sudden absence of it the following morning. His body has worked hard and is sore, and his left arm still hangs more heavily than his right, but for the first time that he can remember clearly, these inconveniences barely register. The serum that enhances him will alleviate the stress, will remove the marks on his body where the Second had sucked and nipped, will fade the bruises the Second’s fingers left on him, but even if he wasn’t so enhanced, the First is certain that he would be able to walk the halls of this facility and complete his mission absolutely free of pain.

He wonders if it’s considered cliche, this fluttering, light feeling in his chest, wonders if this is something that normal people experience after their first time. But then, this wasn’t their first time.

“What are you smiling about?” asks the Second, as he rubs a towel over his wet hair. He’s grinning too, though, and the First feels his mouth stretch even wider than before.

“Dunno, just thinking, s’all,” the First replies. He barely recognizes his own voice: coy and teasing, but with a hunger underlying it that he never knew he had before. 

It must do something to the Second too because he’s across the room in a flash, pinning the First to the bed with his knees on either side of the First’s thighs.

The shiver that wracks its way through the First’s body has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. The Second’s freshly-showered, but the First can still smell him on his own skin, in the sheets, and as decadent as it feels to continue laying around in bed, the First cannot help but sink further into the mattress and pull the blanket around his body a little tighter, as the Second leans down over him.

But there’s a pounding at the door: it’ll be Rumlow, of course. The First and Second have taken so long this morning that they’re probably late for breakfast in the mess hall, and their handler will also want to check if the Second’s maintenance took before he lets them get to work.

The Second’s expression tenses, so the First raises his hand and traces the furrow between his brows. “We have to pretend a little,” he says quietly.

“I’m tired of pretending,” the Second replies.

“I know.” The First pushes up on his elbows and presses his lips to the Second’s. He lingers for a long moment, enjoying the way the fluttering feeling intensifies, enjoying the way the Second presses his body closer. Then, he dips his head back again just enough to whisper, “Maybe we won’t have to for long.”

The Second regards him earnestly, and the smile tugs back at his lips until he’s grinning like the sun again. There’s another pounding at the door, and the Second only glances at it for a moment before turning back to the First. “I’d like that,” he says. He ducks his head one more time and pecks his lips against the First’s before he pushes himself back off the bed and returns to drying himself off.

The First takes another moment to compose himself, then gets out of bed to answer the door. He realizes halfway through quickly throwing on a t-shirt and shorts that Rumlow would have just barged in by now, and when he opens the door to find a younger female agent, he is actually caught off guard.

“Hi,” she greets, her tone friendly and her face open and genuine. “Sorry if I woke you, but Agent Rumlow got pulled into a meeting with Director Fury, and so he asked me to come and collect you guys for breakfast.”

The First opens his mouth, but shuts it quickly when he realizes that the snappy comeback that wanted to be released is absolutely not the correct way to respond to a colleague of their handler’s. He looks her up and down and realizes that he cannot recall who she is. The intel doesn’t appear.

She smirks at him. “Cat got your tongue, or just not a morning person?”

“Definitely the latter,” answers the Second. He’s come up behind the First and slipped a hand around the First’s waist. With a firm, but pleasant squeeze to the First’s hip, the Second adds, “He’s basically useless before coffee.”

“Better hope a Kaiju doesn’t come through before a Starbucks run then, huh?” the agent responds, laughing.

“Double tall cappuccino,” the Second says. “Dry as a bone.”

She laughs again, brightly. “I’ll have to remember the order, just in case. Well, anyway, I really just came to see if you were awake,” she says, taking a quick glance into the room that raises the First’s hackles even further. The Second subtly tightens his grip on the First’s hip. “I mean, I figure,” she continues with a roll of her eyes, “you remember where the mess hall is, right?”

“Second sub-basement,” the Second answers dutifully.

“Right, exactly.” She glances down the hall and then leans in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell him I said so, but I think Rumlow sometimes underestimates you ranger-types.”

The First is suddenly certain that his alarm must show on his face, but the Second just laughs and then rests his chin on the First’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sharon, your secret’s safe with us.”

Sharon winks. _Sharon Carter,_ the First suddenly remembers, _alias Agent 13, niece of founding SHIELD agent Margaret “Peggy” Carter._ He knows her. He knows them both.

“See you down there then!” she replies, as she turns and makes her way back down the hall.

They both watch her go, and then the Second murmurs in the First’s ear, “You okay?”

The First wants to say yes, wants it all to go back to the way things were before any interruptions, before having to wake up and face the day and the lies again. He wants to go back to how it felt when the Second was knotted inside him, when there was nothing and no one else in the world.

“No,” he finally answers. “I didn’t know her.”

The Second pulls back, and the First turns around to face him, after shutting the door. “What do you mean?” the Second asks.

“Sharon Carter. I didn’t know her just now,” he replies seriously. “I didn’t know who she was. It didn’t...I couldn’t place her.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Second laughs. “Sharon Carter, agent of SHIELD, niece of founding member Peggy Carter, it’s all there in the debriefing.”

“I know that, but I couldn’t access it. It was gone. I looked at her, and I couldn’t place her. I couldn’t access the information. I couldn’t--” The First breaks off on a frustrated noise, angry with himself suddenly for ruining everything. They had both been feeling so good, but now he has to watch the pained expression flit across the Second’s face, has to know that he messed up everything by being so weak. “Don’t look at me like that,” he adds, folding his arms petulantly across his chest.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” the Second challenges, but his tone is soft. He’s not angry, really, and the First gets the feeling that the Second actually likes it when he challenges his dominance. Except that now is not the time, no matter how much he’d like to diffuse the tension he’s created. “What did it feel like?”

“What do you mean?”

The Second shrugs his shoulders. Feelings are still a rather unfamiliar terrain for them, no matter how many things keep piercing the surface of the conditioning they’ve undergone over the last seventy years. “What did it feel like when you couldn’t place her?”

The First opens his mouth, then closes it again when nothing comes out right away. He doesn’t know how to describe it, that buzzing, itchy feeling beneath his skin, except to say it felt like fear. But he cannot admit to fear. Fear is weakness, and weakness is punished.

But, the Second would never punish him. He is the Second’s and the Second is his, and if they belong together and to each other, they can trust each other. The First realizes with an audible gasp that he trusts the Second in a way that has nothing at all to do with how HYDRA has taught them to rely upon each other and upon their handlers. It’s something deeper, something the First can feel in his bones.

“I was afraid,” he then says. “The information wouldn’t come and I was afraid.”

The Second’s expression softens, and he steps forward again to gather the First’s hands in his own. “Was it like a blank space?” he whispers.

“Yes,” the First answers, tilting his head up.

The Second lowers his head just so and presses his lips against the First’s in a soft kiss, and the First wants so badly to melt against the strong, firm chest. He knows the Second doesn’t want to pretend anymore, but when it feels this good, what’s so wrong with it? The Second sighs out of the kiss, pulling back only just enough to speak, and says, “Are...are you certain that you weren’t taken in for--”

“--yes, I’m sure,” the First interrupts. “But I still couldn’t remember her. I couldn’t...I couldn’t place her. Now I can. I know exactly who Sharon Carter is and what she does for SHIELD and what threat she presents to the covert aspect of our mission, because she is not one of ours, but I _couldn’t_ just now, and I’m...I’m…”

The Second’s kind eyes flicker back and forth over the First’s face, trying to read something that the First isn’t sure he can telegraph properly. He doesn’t know how to turn off the fear that continues to buzz and wend under his skin and through his chest and that has so thoroughly tamped down the good feeling the Second had given him before. He’s never wanted something back so acutely.

“You’re what?” the Second quietly prompts.

The First looks away, ashamed. “I’m malfunctioning,” he finishes.

“No, no you aren’t,” the Second shushes him, reaching up to cup the First’s face in his hands. His thumbs stroke along the First’s cheekbones, and the First closes his eyes against the soft touch.

They stand quietly like that for several long moments. The First counts them by breaths, in and out, steady and even as the Second’s heartbeat. He opens his eyes then to find the startling blue of the Second’s looking back at him, and he smiles.

“Better now?” the Second asks, as he molds himself along the length of the First’s body again with his arms wrapped tightly around the First’s waist where they belong.

The First tilts his head, and his lips meet the Second’s jaw. He hums in the back of his throat, as the light feeling flutters back into his chest. “Much better now,” he replies, then gently bites the Second’s chin, drawing a surprised laugh from him.

“Good, ‘cause, see, here I had thought what was really going on was you were feeling a little jealous actually,” the Second teases, as he steps back once more and rubs at his chin where the First’s teeth have made little marks.

The First narrows his eyes at him. “Ain’t jealous of no dame, no matter how good-lookin’ she is,” he replies.

“I like it when you talk like that,” the Second says. “It doesn’t fit, but it does. Now go get cleaned up so we can get down to the mess before somebody else comes to wrangle us.”

“Yessir,” the First replies, with a playful salute.

The Second returns it with a bright laugh, and the First feels warm all over again, as he locks himself into the bathroom and turns on the water.

The First showers quickly, not allowing himself to linger over the little marks and bites that have already started to fade away. His mind starts to focus on his lapse again, though, going over the details of how he looked at Sharon Carter and could not sift through the debriefing information that should have identified her immediately. The Second called it jealousy, but while jealousy is a powerful motivator, the First should have the strength to withstand it in the face of the mission. He shouldn’t even feel it in the first place, he knows, but if he does feel it, then he should be able to ignore it.

It’s certainly possible, he considers, as he shuts off the water and reaches for a towel to dry himself off, that after everything that’s happened in the last several days, he hadn’t _wanted_ to ignore the jealousy. That he had possibly wanted to experience it. That perhaps he couldn’t have stopped himself from feeling it, even if he tried.

_There’s a woman, gorgeous and curvy, with bright red lips and a bright red dress, with eyes only for his alpha._

_“I’m waiting for the right partner,” she says._

_His alpha smiles slowly at her._

“I knew I knew her,” the First says quietly to himself, as he towels himself dry and quickly dresses in his tac gear. _Agent Peggy Carter_ , his mind helpfully supplies. _Strategic Scientific Reserve. World War Two._

The memories keep surfacing. They aren’t supposed to be out for this long, the First knows. It’s why they usually aren’t commissioned for longer-term operations. The First supposes it’s much easier to keep them both on ice and only use them for assassinations and other short-term targeting ops. He supposes there really is only so many times a brain can get fried, even if that brain’s juiced up with super soldier serum, before something goes wrong.

The Second -- _alpha_ , his mind insists -- is dressed and ready when the First emerges from the bathroom, and he grins widely enough that the First cannot help but match it. “We almost definitely missed the meal,” he says, as he extends his arm to the side, clearly intent on gathering the First in to his side.

The First steps up and lets his alpha hold him close. “I wasn’t hungry anyway,” he replies.

“Me either,” his alpha replies. He leans his face down and presses another lingering kiss to the First’s lips. “I’m extremely full.” 

The First cannot help but smile at that, pleased that despite his own strange behavior this morning, his alpha is still satisfied by him. The itchy-buzzing feeling in his chest has dissipated now almost entirely, soothed by his alpha’s presence and praise.

They start out of the room and down the halls to the Jaeger bays together. “They’re going to be able to tell something’s different,” the First then says quietly, after a long moment of contented silence. “Between us, I mean. Last night…”

“I think we’ve done well enough at the cover that nothing should be so obvious,” his alpha replies, when the First can’t go on. “We’ve been affectionate. It’s what lovers do.”

“Yeah,” the First replies, “but this is different, ain’t it? They’re gonna...they’ll be able to scent it.”

His alpha stops them moving, as the realization seems to sink in. “We aren’t really betas.” It isn’t a question.

The First shakes his head in the negative. The furrow between his alpha’s eyes deepens, as he seems to try parsing out all the questions that must be going through his head. “I can see why they would want us to be betas,” the First adds.

“Anything else would be a tactical disadvantage, even with a predictable heat and rut cycle synchronization,” his alpha murmurs.

The Soldiers are supposed to be perfect machines, and perfect machines wouldn’t allow the frenzy of heat and rut to disrupt their missions. The First has seen what HYDRA has done in the past to wayward alphas and omegas who couldn’t control themselves. He looks up then at his alpha, and his lips curve up again in a soft smile, because he’s quite certain he wouldn’t have been able to control himself around his alpha, had he known what they truly were. Had it not been conditioned out of him over the years.

“Come on,” the First then says, tugging his alpha forward again. “We’re really late now. Somebody’s bound to be angry with us.” 

But when they arrive at the mess hall to receive their meals and find seats at one of the open tables, the only mention of the fact that they are late this morning is a knowing smile from Ms. Potts and a lewd gesture from Stark that causes the First’s alpha to blush and duck his head, embarrassed, because Rumlow is nowhere to be found. The First knows better than to let his guard down, but decides not to ask. He just glances at his alpha, who gives a minute nod. 

After they hastily finish their food, enduring Stark’s merciless teasing all the while, they head up to the Jaeger bays. The First keeps his eyes open for their handler all the while and notices that his alpha is subtly doing the same. The First relaxes a bit then, letting his shoulder brush against his alpha’s as they walk. His alpha lets their fingers twine together, and the warmth spreads again through the First’s chest. 

“I have literally every confidence in you two,” says Stark, as he bounces along ahead of them. He turns around and starts walking backward, continuing, “Shaq and Kobe...Thelma and Louise...Bert and Ernie, hah!” He comes to a complete halt and points directly at the two of them, waggling his eyebrows. “Bert and Ernie, if you know what I mean.”

“We really, really don’t,” the First replies dryly. His alpha shakes his head and laughs.

“Welcome to the club,” says Barton, who has come up and slung his arm over the First’s shoulders. “Half of what Tony says means nothing.”

“And the other half goes over everyone’s head but Bruce’s,” adds Natasha, who flanks the First’s alpha on the other side.

“I find it very hard to believe that you don’t understand it, Natasha,” says his alpha.

“I can’t imagine there’s much that gets by her.”

Natasha smirks knowingly at the First, as Barton chimes in, “Smart as a whip, my girl is,” then preens a little at his compliment.

“Yes, yes, Nat’s completely brilliant, but nobody’s as brilliant as yours truly,” says Stark. He gestures impatiently behind him to where Captain America stands, massive, gleaming and impressive -- and just waiting for the First and his alpha to get inside and prove that they can pilot him competently. “Let’s go already,” Stark continues, grinning, “I wanna see this baby purr.”

They are ushered by the small, but growing party of observers to the loading deck, where they are fitted out with their Jaeger-specific tac gear. As Natasha hands the First his helmet, he is struck by the sense that she’s assessing him again. But she must find whatever she’s looking for because she only smiles and nods at him, then says, quietly and in Russian, “ _Good luck in there._ ”

“Ready, Lev?” His distaste for the false name must briefly show on his face because his alpha reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently, like an apology. He lowers his voice and says, “Ready, baby?” soft enough for only the First to hear him.

He nods, then gives a thumb’s up to the rest of the team. “Let’s do this!”

Barton lets out a whoop and leads the group in a round of applause, as the First and his alpha climb into the hook-up inside Captain America’s head. The comm units flicker on, and the First can hear Dr. Banner and Agent Hill chattering to each other as they engage the modified crane that will lift the head up and secure it onto the Jaeger’s body.

“Is it odd that I’m excited?” asks his alpha, once they start to be lifted. “Well, no maybe that’s not the right word for it.”

“I know what you mean,” the First replies. It’s not so much excitement, as it is anticipation. Something about this feels important in a way that the test drifts hadn’t. Maybe because it’s their first time in what will be their Jaeger, or maybe it’s just because they had shared such a deep connection the night before and _everything_ that they’re doing together feels more significant now.

The head secures itself to the body with a seamless click, locking them in place. The dashboard lights up as the AI comes online, and even though the drift hasn’t even begun yet, the First feels himself thrumming with the knowledge that soon they will be connected mind and body and machine -- all working together in perfect harmony.

“All right, ready in there, boys?” asks Dr. Banner. “We’re going to keep it easy to start. You’ll drift and then we’ll test your range of motion together.”

“Got it,” says his alpha. “Ready when you are.”

“And remember, the drift is silent. Don’t latch on, don’t chase any individual memory. If you start to hear voices or sounds, just relax until you let go again,” Agent Hill instructs. “It can be much more intense when you’re actually in your Jaeger, but I know you can do it.”

His alpha nods, and the First returns the gesture. Because they can do it. They can and they will, not because they have to, but because they _want_ to.

The memory of last night is going to be particularly hard to ignore, though, the First is certain of that.

“Neural handshake initiated,” says Agent Hill. “Right hemisphere engaged. Left hemisphere engaged. Here we go, Cap!”

“Here we go,” says his alpha in his head.

The First closes his eyes and begins to drift. The memories flood him, and he catches small snatches of sound that he brushes off easily. He sees missions that he and his alpha have shared, he sees solo missions that the Second has gone on, sees training, sees the little alpha and the omega twined together--

“Don’t chase it,” his alpha warns over their private connection.

“I know,” he replies, focusing on the drift again. He sees his alpha emerge from some kind of machine, not from maintenance, but something else, something he hadn’t witnessed at the time. He’s different now. He’s supposed to be smaller, but bigger is okay too. He’s the same underneath it all, his stubborn little punk. “Shit, sorry, sorry,” he says, when he starts to hear sounds again.

“Come on, baby, focus. We can do this.”

_“Hurry, hurry, go!” The bridge is wobbling, but they have to get across._

Something harsh and desperate suddenly lances through him and clenches in his chest. He cries out silently, and feels it when his alpha responds in kind. The pain of it-- why is it suddenly so painful? 

_Once they get across the bridge, they can finish the mission. They have to take Schmidt down, and this is the only way. It’s dangerous, but they have to do it. This is what they’ve been working for since he got pulled off that table. It’s all been building to this._

This memory feels important. He should ignore it, he knows he should, they’re going to fail if he doesn’t, but-- but it feels so important.

_He just barely makes it across the crumbling bridge before what was left topples into the fiery pit below. Horrified, he turns around, breathing heavily with exertion._

_His alpha looks resigned. “Get out of here!” he shouts._

The First knows this-- he’s not making it up, he knows this. He’s felt this before. Felt the fire and the pain, the exhaustion. He’s looked into his alpha’s face, as his alpha urged him away. But he would never. He’d never leave his alpha behind.

_“No! Not without you!” he shouts._

_His alpha leaps across the fire-- he reaches out to catch his alpha-- his alpha in that stupid star-spangled suit, with that shield so like a target, always drawing fire, always doing what he thinks he has to do to save everyone, the star-spangled man with the plan, America’s hero, Captain America--_

But no, that’s not right--it’s not Schmidt they’re after now, not with the fire and the box and the stupid cardboard shield that’ll fall apart in a second, Jesus fuckin’ Christ, _I leave you alone for five fuckin’ minutes and you’re off lettin’ the government experiment on you and turn you into some kinda fuckin’ superhero_. It’s-- there’s something else. There’s more. This is only half of it. There’s another time. There’s a train. They’re on a train. That’s when-- that’s when he--

“-- chasing the rabbit --”

The First hears them talking about him over the comms, jagged pieces of conversation that he ignores. He needs to see what happens next. He needs to see if he’s able to save Captain America. 

“-- power it down! Goddamnit, Bruce--”

“-- gonna blow us all to --”

“-- Lev! Lev, come back -- you need to let go!”

His name isn’t Lev. His name isn’t Lev. His name isn’t Lev.

_He picks up the shield. His heart is in his throat. This shield is heavy, vibranium, Howard Stark made it, and although he knows he can wield it, it’s not his. It belongs to Captain America. It belongs to Steve Rogers._

Steve Rogers. Stevie. Stevie, whose mom’s name was Sarah and who used to wear newspapers in his shoes. His best friend. His alpha. His-- _his_.

_The blast is huge. He blows through and manages to grab onto a railing. The train careens down the tracks. They’re in the mountains. Steve is there, Steve’s holding on._

_“Bucky!” Steve screams._

His name is Bucky. Bucky Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038, of the 107th Infantry. His chest hurts, but-- but it’s not his own pain. It’s Steve’s. Steve’s heart hurts, and Bucky can feel it in his own chest.

“Come back. You’ve got to let go, please, this isn’t happening!”

He can feel himself in Steve’s mind and body. They’re one. They’ve always been one: one mind in two perfect bodies, two halves of one whole. But it’s more, and Bucky knows this with absolute clarity.

“Please, baby, I need you to come back to me. Please, you need to come back. This is just a memory!” Steve’s shouting, but Bucky ignores him. He needs to see, needs to know what happens next.

_He hangs on tightly to the side of the train. He reaches for his alpha, but he falls, screaming, he falls for so long. Something inside him breaks when he hits the ground. His heart-- his heart breaks._

Bucky’s eyes sting. He distantly hears a loud buzzer, feels the AI go offline and the Jaeger forcibly shut down around him. He carefully removes his helmet and turns his head, eyes locking on Steve immediately, but his vision is blurred. He’s crying too hard to see clearly.

Steve removes his helmet too, extricates himself from the hook-up and stalks toward the exit without a backward glance at Bucky. Bucky can feel him, though, can feel him still thrumming in his head and in his heart.

He’s angry, and he’s afraid. He’s hurting. Steve is hurting so badly.

Bucky needs to go after him.

\-- -- --

He feels like he’s been ripped in half; one part of him longs to turn right back around and gather the First--no, his omega-- his _Bucky_ into his arms and not let go until they’ve remembered and analyzed every last bit of knowledge about their lives that they share between them, and the other half needs to seek out his handler, seek out Rumlow and demand answers to the thousands of questions that are running ragged through his brain.

The second they touched down on the ground again, he was through the exit, ignoring Bucky’s mournful look -- _What a terrible alpha you are,_ an ugly little voice in his head said, _abandoning your omega when he needs you most._ \-- and the aching pull in his chest. He’d all but thrown his helmet at Stark, who’d come forward to meet them, and shoved off everyone who tried to stop him from leaving the floor. He’d apologize later, deal with the fallout there later, after he had the answers he needed. After he’d found Rumlow and got an explanation for the now-undeniable fact that his name is Steven Grant Rogers and he was Captain America.

It hits him powerfully, the sudden weight of it. He was-- he _is_ Captain America. The details are fuzzy, and there are large blank spaces in his head that even if he probes at them, they don’t fill in, but the knowledge of who he was and who he is settles deeply into his body, almost like it never left. Like he never forgot -- like he was never broken and forced to forget.

Shame is next, bitter and overwhelming, like bile in his throat. He wonders if he fought at all, how long he lasted before HYDRA took everything that made him who he was and tore it out of him. How long did it take before he blindly followed their commands? How long before he was just another mindless killing machine for the very people he had spent so much time trying to eradicate from the face of the earth? How could he have failed so spectacularly?

Except that he does think he knows the answer to that question all on his own. He doesn’t need Rumlow to confirm for him that the moment Steve’s omega fell from that train, Steve lost a part of himself. Steve lost something intrinsic to who he was. And then-- and then he--

“Knew this was a fuckin’ terrible idea, letting you two be out for so long.”

Steve whirls on hearing Rumlow’s voice, instinctively reaching behind himself for the shield that isn’t there. Instead, he carefully lowers his hands to his sides, projecting as much calm as he can, despite the fury coiling inside him. For his part, Rumlow stands with his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall in what is clearly meant to attempt a disarming, casual pose. As if he could possibly be anything less than a severe threat. But Steve knows who he is now, and also knows that even without his shield, he is more of a weapon that Brock Rumlow could ever hope to be.

“S’pose I should just trigger you, shouldn’t I?” Rumlow says. “Wipe you, get you back to storage where you belong. I’m sure we could find another partner for your little boyfriend, or, hell, we could just put the both of you back on ice and call it a wash. No harm, no foul.” He pushes off the wall then and takes a step forward.

“I wouldn’t move if I were you, son,” Steve says, raising one hand and curling the other into a tight fist at his side.

Rumlow sneers at him, but remains in place.

A perverse sense of satisfaction travels through Steve at the obedience. So Rumlow at least does know how much danger he’s in -- that’s good. Steve hopes he feels it through every inch of his traitorous body. Hopes he feels sick and afraid, no matter what he’s showing on his face.

“So why don’t you then?” Steve asks. “I can’t imagine you don’t have contingencies...trigger words implanted in our heads for just this sort of complication.”

Rumlow stares at him, but doesn’t answer. Steve watches a bead of sweat roll from Rumlow’s forehead down over his nose and then drop, hears the delicate little plop it makes when it hits the floor.

“It’s because you know it doesn’t work on me, don’t you?” he continues. “Because you know I can resist it.” 

It’s starting to come back quickly and easily now. He remembers some other handler on a mission that lasted four days longer than it was initially calculated to last screaming “Sputnik” at him, even as Steve took his legs out from under him and pinned him to the ground. He remembers the whole rest of his STRIKE team having to pile on and subdue him with a tranquilizer before he went down. He remembers a conversation between Alexander Pierce and that pathetic excuse for a handler before Pierce calmly shot the handler point blank between the eyes in front of a roomful of witnesses. He remembers the chair hurting a whole hell of a lot more that time.

He takes a step forward and delights in the tension that settles in Rumlow’s shoulders and arms. He’s bracing for a fight. Steve remembers how to fight bullies like Rumlow.

 _With Bucky on your six,_ his mind again quickly supplies, _ready to step in and finish it off._

Steve frowns. He really was so little once, but Bucky was always his. _“To the end of the line, pal.”_

His moment of distraction nearly costs him this time, but he manages to catch Rumlow as he charges forward. He grunts as he lifts Rumlow off his feet and throws him back against the wall. “Did I say you could move yet?” Steve asks, his voice a low growl. He’s barely breathing any heavier.

Rumlow staggers to his feet, using the wall to brace himself up. “Oh fuck you, _Captain America_!” Rumlow then spits, his tone dripping with mocking disdain. “Some hero you turned out to be." 

Steve rushes forward and lands an uppercut across Rumlow’s cheek. His head hits the wall with a sickening crack, but he dizzily rights himself again. After he spits out blood and a broken tooth, Rumlow grins at Steve, wide and manic.

“You know you’re never gonna be that guy again, right? You know you can’t be him anymore, no matter what happens to me,” Rumlow says, mockingly. “You could kill me right here where I stand, but there’s ten guys right behind me in this building alone that’re just begging to take my place.”

“Cut off one head…” Steve says softly.

Rumlow lets out a bright laugh and nods. “Yeah, yeah exactly, Cap!”

Steve’s eyes narrow, and he steps forward menacingly again. “Don’t call me that. You haven’t earned it,” he threatens.

“Earned what, _Cap_?” Rumlow spits the nickname like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, even as his mouth keeps the shape of that wild grin. He’s an animal cornered, and Steve thinks that were the circumstances even a little different, he’d be more afraid of pushing Rumlow when he’s like this. But Steve still needs his answers, and he’s not going anywhere until he gets them. “Earned the right,” Rumlow continues, “to call you by a name whose reputation you’ve destroyed? Sure, sure I guess that makes sense.”

And he’s right, of course, not that Steve wants to admit to it. Whoever Captain America was, whoever Steve Rogers was in the history books, he’s certainly not that man anymore. He’s done enough damage over the last seventy years to erase whatever good he may once have done. The thought makes him sick to his gut again.

It must show on his face because Rumlow leers at him. “Yeah, exactly. Can you even imagine what people’ll think if they find out what you did? Who you killed for us? Even though you weren’t the sniper, somebody must’ve had a real sense of irony sending you out to that grassy knoll.”

Steve’s hands unclench from their fists, and he takes a couple steps backward involuntarily. He remembers it, the grassy knoll, a fourth shot-- so many screams--

Rumlow pushes off the wall and starts forward, taking advantage of Steve’s distress. “So wouldn’t it just be easier to come back to the fold, Cap? Wouldn’t it just be so much easier--”

Natasha leaps out of the shadows onto Rumlow’s shoulders, squeezing his neck between her thighs and cutting him off. Steve falls back and throws up his fists, ready to fight again, but it looks like she doesn’t need him. She twists around like a cat, as Rumlow struggles against her and screams obscenities, then pitches straight backward. Her momentum carries them both in a somersault, until she quickly pins him and fires off a stinger into the side of his neck. He falls flat almost instantly after that.

Although the threat is extreme, although Natasha is likely to turn any second and attack him, Steve hasn’t moved from his spot. He watches her stand up slowly and turn to face him, her expression carefully blank. “How much do you know?” he asks her.

She bares her teeth in a parody of a smile, and Steve tenses again. “Enough to get started,” she admits.

“What are you going to do?”

Natasha glances down at the crumpled heap of Rumlow’s body, then flicks her gaze back up to meet Steve’s. “I’m going to let you go to your mate,” she then answers, after a long, considering silence.

Caught off-guard, Steve’s eyebrows jump up. He takes a step forward, and her spine straightens, as she prepares for the attack. Steve realizes that the scent thickening through the small space is not just her alpha pheromones, but his own. A wave of memory overtakes him suddenly again. 

_Bucky stares back at him with wide, almost unseeing eyes. “I thought you were smaller,” he says._

_Steve can smell the fear and the pain on him, and his hackles raise further. Whoever hurt his mate is going to die. Steve is going to track them and rip them apart until there’s nothing left. He bares his teeth._

_“Steve,” Bucky breathes, as he pitches forward, ducks his head under Steve’s chin and inhales deeply. He shudders against Steve’s body, until Steve wraps Bucky in his arms._

How could he have forgotten who and what he is? How could he have lost so much time? How could he have let Bucky down like this?

“Go to him now, but don’t for a second think that this is over between us,” Natasha says in a low voice. “I’ve got work to do.”

Steve opens his mouth to respond before his brain catches up with him, but she’s giving him a chance. He has no idea why, has no idea how or why he’s earned this from her, but she’s giving it to him nonetheless. So instead, he nods slowly, hoping his gratitude is obvious from the gesture instead of some mangled thank you might otherwise have managed.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she adds. “Because I can kill you with my thumb.”

Despite himself, Steve smiles genuinely. “I have no doubt about that.”

Natasha nods and then looks down at the crumpled heap of Rumlow’s body assessingly. “Now, what to do with you,” she says quietly.

Steve turns away and starts down the halls again, grateful for the brief reprieve. His head is still buzzing with a million questions, a million fears, until he realizes suddenly with such an almost painful shock to the heart, that not all of them are his own. Bucky’s still with him-- still connected to him, whether through the drift or through their re-awakening bond. He can feel what Bucky’s feeling right now, and it hurts. It hurts so much.

“God, Buck, I’m so sorry,” Steve whispers to himself, as he presses a hand against his aching chest. “I’m coming now. I’m coming.”

Steve closes his eyes, listens to the sound of his own heartbeat, feels the thrum of Bucky calling to him in his chest. It doesn’t take long once he really starts listening, and after he’s locked on, he hurriedly makes his way back to their dormitory. God, he shouldn’t have left Bucky alone. He never should have left Bucky alone, no matter how scared he was or how many answers he needed.

He understands the weight of his earlier promise now: his promise not to let anything happen to Bucky, even before he knew who Bucky really was. It means that he has someone to care for now, and always had. It means that even though he and Bucky were broken down and reordered and put to the monstrous use they were over so many long, torturous years, none of it matters because deep in the part of him that remained himself, deep in the part that struggled to the surface no matter how many times they tried to burn it out of him, Steve Rogers knew that he needed to keep Bucky Barnes safe from harm -- because he’d failed once before in that intrinsic mission. He’d failed, and he’d lost everything.

He would never fail again.

Steve wrenches open the door to the dormitory and slams it shut, not caring if anyone saw or anyone else followed. Nothing matters but Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky says. He was seated on the edge of their bed when Steve entered, but he stands up now. “I was hopin’ you’d come back here.”

“I-- I’m sorry I…” Steve trails off when the words refuse to come.

Bucky looks at him for a long moment, searchingly. Then he looks down at the floor. His lips curve up tiredly.

“Bucky?” Steve sounds broken, but hopeful to his own ears.

Bucky’s eyes fall closed and he sways on his feet, but doesn’t topple over because Steve’s instinctively crossed the room and gathered him into his arms. “Steve,” he breathes.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers back, relieved.

\-- -- --

Bucky keeps his face tucked into Steve’s neck so that he can burrow into the scent, let it comfort him, comfort them both really. He can feel Steve’s heartbeat, Steve’s warmth spreading throughout his entire body. Lets it soothe him, remind him of how things used to be before all of this.

It’s fuzzy still, though, in his head. The pieces are beginning to knit back together, but they’re jumbled all around, rather than linear. He doesn’t care though. He doesn’t care if the memories don’t come back properly; all he cares about is the fact they exist, that they’re real, and that no matter what HYDRA did to him over the years, they weren’t able to take away everything.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up from Bucky’s chest, and he has to let it out, even though it’ll disturb the fragile peace in the small room.

Steve pulls back, just enough so that he can look at Bucky, and his expression is unreadable as he says, “What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky replies, unable to stifle the laughter. It wracks him bodily, and Steve tightening his grip on Bucky a little, only makes Bucky laugh the harder. “I don’t fuckin’ know. I just gotta...just gotta laugh.”

He thinks maybe that if he doesn’t laugh, he’ll start to cry again. And he doesn’t want to cry anymore because he can’t possibly be sad now. He can’t be sad when Steve has come back to him after all these years. When he finally feels complete once more, like everything in his fragmented life, everything that he’s done over the last seventy years has only been leading to the moment he finally gets to settle in the arms of his alpha.

It feels a little bit like freedom, even though he knows there’s so much pain, so much trouble, so much fear and anger waiting on the other side of the door to their little makeshift sanctuary. He doesn’t care right now. He can care about that later, after he’s done just letting himself be in his alpha’s arms.

“Can you believe the arrogance?” Bucky then says, still chuckling, still shaking. “They thought -- fuck, can you believe that they thought they could control us? They--he, Pierce, he-- he thought he was in charge-- he--” He dissolves into helpless laughter again, sagging against Steve.

Steve just gathers him in the closer, bears him up, lets him laugh and laugh for what feels like an endless amount of time, until finally, it starts to subside, and Bucky just feels exhausted in heart and in mind. Tears have come to his eyes anyway, despite the laughter or perhaps because of it.

“Y’okay now, Buck?” Steve asks, murmuring the words into the top of Bucky’s head.

“I’m with you to the end of the line,” Bucky says, instead of answering because he honestly doesn’t know if he is okay or not. “Do you remember that?”

Steve nods against Bucky’s head, then pulls back to meet Bucky’s gaze head on again. “After ma died, you-- you said I didn’t have to be alone,” he answers, voice hitching.

“But I still left,” Bucky replies. “I left you, Stevie, and I’m...I’m so sorry ‘bout that.”

“No, Buck, don’t, you--” Steve cuts himself off, obviously frustrated. He pushes Bucky back until the back of his knees hit the bed and the momentum makes him sit down. Steve then takes a seat next to him, takes his hand and leans forward to rest his forehead against Bucky’s own. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hold on,” he whispers, voice wavering in pain. “I’m so, so sorry that I couldn’t hold on.”

“Stevie--”

“--no, let me get it out, Buck, please. I failed. I failed and,” Steve shudders out a breath, “this is all my fault. All of this. If I’d just’ve held on...If I’d’a held onto you, then you never woulda...and I never woulda had to go down alone. Bucky, I...I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I failed you. I was supposed to protect you, and I failed.”

Bucky leans in and shushes him with a kiss, reaching his hands up to cup Steve’s face. He keeps it light, and when he pulls back, Steve chases after his lips, but Bucky puts a finger to Steve’s lips to stop him. “Don’t you dare be sorry for a thing you couldn’t help,” Bucky says seriously.

“I coulda fought harder, Bucky. I coulda stopped this, stopped any of this before it started!” he insists.

Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t you talk like that. I don’t want you talkin’ like that about my best guy,” he replies.

It’s hard, though, because it’s at least partly true. It’s hard not to go down the rabbit hole now that the memories are coming back and knitting together to reveal their story. It’s hard not to wonder how differently things might have gone if he hadn’t fallen off that train...if Steve had been able to pull him back up...if they might have finished that mission together instead of Steve having to finish it alone...if he’d been there to figure out another way to take that plane down.

From the pained look on Steve’s face, though, Bucky can see that Steve doesn’t believe him. So Bucky leans forward again and pull Steve into a more lingering kiss. He nudges his tongue to the seam of Steve’s lips until Steve parts them on a breath. Bucky slowly massages his against Steve’s, letting them tangle and twist together. His hands come up again, landing on the sides of Steve’s neck, until Steve grabs Bucky by the waist and pulls him closer.

They shift position almost seamlessly, Steve falling to his back and tugging Bucky on top of him. Bucky settles his weight between Steve’s parted legs and wraps his arms around Steve’s back. He sighs when Steve draws his hands down Bucky’s back, resting one at the small dip above his ass and dragging the other back up to palm Bucky’s neck. Then, he finds Steve’s lips again, and they kiss languidly, unhurriedly exploring each other’s mouths again.

There might be danger on the outside of their door, but as far as Bucky cares, there’s no rush at all. They have all the time in the world to make up for all the time that they lost.

“Bucky, I…” Steve begins, then falls silent.

Bucky can feel the heat of him, even through the thicker layer of the tac gear they’re still wearing, and suddenly, he wants to move faster. Wants to be pressed skin-to-skin with the man he loves.

It hits him like a bolt of lightning, so hard and so fast that it knocks the wind from him. He loves Steve. That was the feeling that had been pressing on his heart ever since the first time they emerged from the drift. That was the feeling he’d been trying to find a name for. That was the feeling that had been pulling at his insides, trying to help him see what he’d been missing for so long. It was love.

He remembers, then, another night. A night long, long ago, before the war, before everything changed. It was the night before Bucky was set to ship out, and they were lying like this together, Bucky between Steve’s legs, more careful then than he has to be now to not put too much weight (even though he knows Steve probably could have taken it -- he was always so much stronger than he looked). He’d looked at Steve lying there below him and just known that even though they were going to be far apart because of time and circumstance and an unlucky draw of his number, it didn’t have to matter too much. Because there was a way to be together even though they were miles and miles apart.

_“Stevie, I know...I know we said it was too dangerous, but...but I think we should do it,” he says._

_“Bucky, I--”_

_“--no, I don’t care. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Nothin’ else is gonna ever change that. We should.” Steve closes his eyes, slides his hands down Bucky’s back and pulls him closer, until Bucky lays down fully, his nose pressed into the hollow at Steve’s throat. “Please, Stevie. I love you,” he whispers into Steve’s skin._

Steve must know what Bucky wants to ask, must feel it because he puts a hand on Bucky’s chest and pushes him back. “Do you want it back?” he asks, eyes fierce and determined.

God, Bucky loves him so much. He nods, unable to find adequate words.

It’s enough, though, because Steve lets out a shaky exhale and then smiles the brightest, most beautiful smile that Bucky has ever seen. “Good, because I don’t think I can stand another second not being bonded to you.”

Bucky laughs again, shivery and helpless and relieved. “Steve, I love you so much,” he says, as he slides back and starts to remove the jumpsuit. “I can’t believe I ever forgot that.”

“Me either,” Steve says, following suit. “Although...maybe I never really did. Maybe it’s always been there, just waiting. All those times that I needed to be--”

“--let’s not talk about that,” Bucky interrupts. HYDRA and maintenance and the conditioning, none of that matters right now. It doesn’t have to matter ever again. The only thing that matters is that he and Steve were one and are going to be one again.

Steve nods, then reaches out his hand and traces along Bucky’s cheekbone, down his jaw and then over his lips. “I love you, Bucky,” he says quietly, and Bucky feels it deep in his bones.

“Then make me yours again,” Bucky replies, as he leans forward, pressing his now-bare chest against Steve’s. He continues, whispering against Steve’s lips, “Please, baby, I want you to claim me again.”

Steve kisses him hard in answer, wrapping his arms around Bucky and pulling him down into Steve’s lap. Bucky wriggles a little, trying to line up their cocks to get some friction. He’s already so hard, he can’t believe he didn’t notice it before, but he’s aching for it. He wants Steve’s hands, his mouth, he wants everything that Steve can give him before Steve mounts him and claims him and knots him, bonding them together again.

But Steve grips his hips hard, pulling him back just enough that they aren’t touching where Bucky wants them to be. Bucky whines against Steve’s mouth, and Steve’s lips curve up in a teasing smile. “Not so fast, doll. Where’s the fire?”

With a groan, Bucky tips his head forward to rest on Steve’s shoulder. “You’re such a little shit, Stevie,” he complains. “Seventy damn years ain’t changed that.”

Steve shrugs, and when Bucky looks up, that shit-eating grin still on his face.

“Please?” Bucky asks. “Please, I’m beggin’.”

“Oh, I know you’re beggin’,” Steve replies, then lays back against the bed again. Bucky remains upright, perched on Steve’s upper thighs. “I got ears, don’t I?”

Bucky frowns down at him, but then a thought comes over him, and his lips twist back up in a wry, teasing smile. He reaches between them and begins stroking Steve’s cock, watches as Steve exhales slowly, his eyes fluttering closed. “Like that, baby?” he asks.

“Yeah, Buck, feels real good,” Steve replies. “Just like that.”

“You sure?” Bucky asks, as he starts to scoot backward along Steve’s legs. He shifts his weight until Steve parts them and he can settle between. “Want my mouth instead?”

Steve moans softly and nods. “Yes, please,” he says, pushing up on his elbows so that he has a better view.

“Forgot how polite you were,” Bucky replies, then bites down on his lower lip to hide his smile. He settles more comfortably between Steve’s legs and puts his hands on Steve’s hipbones to hold him down. “Damn, Stevie, you look so good,” he continues, as he leans in and noses at Steve’s cock. Steve’s flushed and really does look delicious. He also smells amazing...his perfect alpha. 

Bucky can’t believe he forgot this either, the heightened desire of being an omega and being with an alpha. He almost forgets his little plan when faced with the rising desire, the rising need in his own body. But then he leans forward and ghosts his lips along Steve’s cock, careful not to actually touch him other than the barest hint.

Steve jerks, tries to buck his hips and push up against Bucky’s lips, but Bucky pulls back, chuckling. “Where’s the fire?” he echoes.

“Please, Bucky, please!” Steve whines.

“Now who’s beggin’, huh?” Bucky teases.

Steve lets out a low growl and sits up. With the speed that Bucky had forgotten Steve possessed, he gets his arms around Bucky and rolls over, changing their positions. Bucky laughs, bright and delighted, as Steve shoves him down on the bed and then begins pressing open-mouthed kisses along the length of his torso until he reaches the cradle of his hips. “I’m pretty sure that _you_ are the one who’s the little shit,” Steve says. His words have almost no real heat, though, and he drags his tongue down the vee of Bucky’s pelvic bone.

“Yes, baby, please,” Bucky cries, arching his back up.

Steve rewards him, just like a good alpha who always takes care of his omega, even when his omega is being naughty, and swallows him all the way down with no pretense. Bucky lets out a long, low groan and melts back into the pillows. His hands find their way into Steve’s hair, tugging on the short blond strands, as Steve begins to suck him off in a quick, brutal rhythm.

He can feel his orgasm building steadily, quickly, too quickly. He doesn’t want to come like this. Not this time. This time he wants to come with Steve deep inside of him, knotting them together and biting his neck, claiming and owning him, cementing their bond forever. Bucky pushes on Steve’s head, trying to get his attention, but Steve only works him the harder, hollowing his cheeks and sucking so sweetly, so beautifully. “Stevie, I’m gonna, oh god, I can’t stop,” Bucky moans, even as he tries to push Steve away.

“S’okay baby,” Steve says, slurring the words around Bucky’s cock. He pulls back just enough to speak properly, replaces his mouth with his hand momentarily, and adds, “Want you to come for me. Please.”

“Nooooo, not yet, not until--”

“--come on, Buck,” Steve says, stilling his hand for a moment, except for his thumb, which swipes over the head of Bucky’s cock, causing Bucky to moan again. “Can’t my omega come for me now? I’m askin’ nice. Please?”

Bucky’s hips thrust up of their own accord, as Steve lowers his mouth again and begins to suck him again. “But...but I wanna--”

“All the time in the world, baby,” Steve says, pulling off again. He slides lower down this time, his lips brush Bucky’s balls and then--

“-- _FUCK!_ ” Bucky shouts, when Steve circles his tongue over his rim once and then starts suckling gently at it. It takes only a few seconds, and even though Bucky tries to hold out, he can’t help it. He comes, shooting hard enough that strings of come land all over his own chest and chin.

Steve pulls back for only a second, grinning up at Bucky between his legs, as Bucky shivers through the aftershocks. “You look so good like that, baby. My perfect omega. Just like I wanted, you did it for me, didn’t you?”

Bucky manages a nod, then groans and collapses against the pillows again, as Steve presses two fingers past his rim and inside him. It takes him a few moments to realize why it was so easy, even though he’s relaxed from having come, and then he moans again, deeper this time, and already beginning to perk up. “Stevie,” he manages, holding one hand up and trying to reach for Steve again, “need you. Please, please, need you.”

“Shhhhh, I’ve got you,” Steve shushes him. He slows his thrusting fingers a little, pushing in carefully and stretching a little until he finds what he was looking for. He holds his fingers in that delicious spot and strokes in little circles over the nub.

Bucky’s aware now that he’s shivering, that his body is stimulated, even overstimulated a little, but he doesn’t care. He wants Steve in him, wants more than that. Wants to be connected on every possible level. He needs his alpha. He needs to be bonded. His body is wet and ready and fuck, fuck, he needs his alpha’s cock now, right now.

“God, Bucky,” Steve groans, and Bucky realizes he was saying it all out loud, begging for his alpha like that, and his cheeks heat, even as his heart thrums with joy.

“Please, Steve, I want you. I want it. Please?” he asks. He hears the almost-desperate whine in his tone, but he doesn’t feel embarrassed by it. It just shows how much he wants Steve. How long he’s waited to feel like this. How much he needs to be satisfied.

Steve crawls up the length of Bucky’s body, dragging his hard-muscled chest and stomach over Bucky’s sensitive cock, drawing a hiss from him that he swallows with a claiming kiss. He then pulls back enough for Bucky to move. “Turn over,” he orders in a low voice, that makes the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stand up.

He shivers with desire as he rolls over and gets up on his hands and knees, presenting himself to his alpha. Steve whimpers, then runs one large hand over Bucky’s flank. Bucky’s spreads his legs a little wider in answer, and Steve stills, exhaling softly at the sight of him.

“I don’t know how I could have ever forgotten you,” he says quietly. “You’re so clearly mine.”

The words go straight to Bucky’s chest in a pang. God, they lost so much time.

“But we have so much time now,” Steve continues, as if he heard Bucky. Maybe he did. “We have all the time left.”

Not trusting himself, Bucky just nods. Just reaches back and guides Steve closer to him. “Please,” he then whispers. “Make me yours again.”

Steve exhales shakily. “You were always mine,” he asserts, then grips Bucky’s hips and pulls Bucky’s ass back against his cock.

Bucky cries out happily, as Steve grinds against him for a bit, but it’s not enough, and he’s done with all this teasing. He just wants to be claimed. “Please, Stevie, don’t make me wait anymore.”

In answer, Steve guides himself against Bucky’s hole and then, finally, _finally_ pushes inside. He seats himself deeply, and Bucky can’t help but tip foward. He expect Steve to try to catch him, but he doesn’t this time, which only makes Bucky the harder. Because his body knows this position, knows what this means.

“Come on, Steve,” Bucky encourages. “Fuck me. I know you can do it so good. I know you can do it so that everyone’s gonna know who’s my alpha.”

Steve snaps his hips forward, thrusting brutally and quickly, and Bucky groans with pleasure. It feels perfect. It feels exactly like what he wants. It hurts and it feels like heaven all at the same time. 

Fuck, he does remember this. Even before Steve got the serum and the Vita-Rays and got all huge and menacing, Steve could still do this. Steve could still give Bucky the pleasure-pain he wanted, could make him come over and over again until his body was finally satiated.

It’s only ever been Steve for Bucky. He remembers that now. He can’t believe he ever forgot.

Steve leans over him now, changing the angle just a bit and pressing down on Bucky’s lower back until Bucky’s elbows give out and he has to press his shoulders into the bed to stay upright. “That’s it, Stevie. I know you can do it. Come on,” he grits out. “Knot me. Knot me so good, baby.”

Almost like Steve was waiting for it, Bucky can feel the change, can feel Steve beginning to swell at the base into his knot. His thrusts become more erratic, but no less perfect. Bucky’s body readies for it, he can feel it growing slicker still, and then Steve cries out sharply as his knot pushes into Bucky’s body and locks them together.

“Now, Stevie, please!” Bucky begs.

Steve gets his arm under Bucky’s and hauls him up. “Love you,” he grits out, before he lowers his mouth to the join of Bucky’s neck and shoulder and closes his teeth there in a claiming bite.

Bucky comes hard, for the second time, the instant that Steve’s teeth meet his skin. He shudders against it, then cries out anew when Steve follows after him, thrusting shallowly, as much as their position and the knot will allow. He’s totally lost to sensation, lost to the bliss of the claim. His head lolls to one side, but Steve holds on, softening his bite only enough not to tear from the stretch.

“Love you so much,” Bucky manages, after he doesn’t know how much time. He still feels a little like he’s floating. The knot has softened enough to let them drift apart, but Steve doesn’t seem interested in that. He’s working his tongue over the bite, tracing it gently, soothing the beautiful ache.

“Love you, Bucky,” Steve replies. He presses a final kiss to the bite mark, then carefully shifts. He lays down on the bed and Bucky lays down next to him, burrowing into Steve’s side. Steve rests his chin on Bucky’s head.

“I feel different,” Bucky then says, after another long moment of sweet silence. “I wasn’t sure I would, but I do. I feel different.”

“I feel you,” Steve answers him. “Right here.” He takes one of Bucky’s hands and rests it on his own chest, right over his heart.

His own heart swells in his chest, but he can’t resist saying, “Such a big ol’ sap, you are.”

Steve chuckles. “And you’re a pain in my ass.”

Bucky opens his mouth to retort, when a siren starts blaring. His eyes widen and he looks at Steve, who tenses. “Do you think…” he trails off. Of course it has to be Rumlow. What else could it be?

“Kaiju attack detected at the breach. All rangers report to the Jaeger deck. Widow Hawk to fly in T-minus five minutes. Repeat…”

\-- -- --

Natasha senses the change the moment they step foot onto the bays. She scents the air, and despite herself, she smiles. She finds Clint, and they share a look, before he makes a playful bow and gives her a wink that makes her laugh out loud.

They shouldn’t be so playful, she knows, not when they’re about to go out and take down a Kaiju, but it seems fitting. Even though there’s a huge mess that needs cleaning up, she’s feeling slightly optimistic for reasons she can’t quite figure out. She feels like maybe something is going to change for the better this time. Possibly. She won’t let her hopes get too high, though. There’s no room for that.

The Captain spots her first, as she suspected he would, and after he runs a hand over the back of his omega’s neck, he jogs over to where she’s changing into her tac gear.

“You should be letting your bond settle,” she admonishes teasingly, but there’s a layer of real heat to it. She’s cautious, and she’ll continue to be cautious until she has more information.

“How did you…” He trails off and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, and his mouth twists into a wry smile. “Where’s Rumlow?”

Natasha fastens the last two clasps on her jumpsuit. “Don’t worry about it now,” she answers him, unconcerned.

“Is he dead?”

She pauses and looks him straight in his bright blue eyes. If Natasha believed in fairy tales, she’d swear she can see to the depths of his soul. But she doesn’t believe in that kind of nonsense -- not anymore. Not when the world is falling so spectacularly apart. There’s still something in him she sees, though, something worth waiting for.

Natasha smiles at him, all teeth. “You don’t kill someone who needs to answer your questions, Steve Rogers.”

Steve’s eyes widen, and his mouth drops open, but before he can say anything, the announcement from the booth replays, indicating they only have 60 seconds before she and Clint have to get into their Jaeger.

Natasha cocks her head and glances over at the man who was Lev Petrovic. “So what’s his name?” she asks.

Steve glances behind himself and then turns back to her. “You don’t know?”

“Didn’t get that far yet,” she replies, an edge coming to her tone. “Although if pressed, I’d tell you that there’s something familiar about him.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “Like I’ve met him before...some other time and place.”

“Maybe you did,” Steve replies, significantly.

Natasha looks him up and down again. “I’ll find out,” she says.

Steve nods, then extends his hand. She takes it and shakes it firmly. “Go save the world first, Natasha,” Steve says.

She grins genuinely now. “Count on it, Captain.”

Steve’s answering smile dawns across his face slowly. There really is hope there, Natasha can see it. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

“You’ll repay me later,” she says, earning a laugh from him.

Natasha then watches as he walks back over to his omega. They mold together, Steve’s arms around the omega’s waist, his chest pressing against the omega’s back. She can practically feel the omega relax from where she stands. And when Clint walks over to her and takes her hand, asks her if she’s ready, she turns to him and says confidently, “Yes.”


End file.
